


Dead and Gone

by pathologxst



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Healing, Platonic bond, Post-Reichenbach, Romance, some violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-04
Updated: 2014-02-04
Packaged: 2017-12-28 08:55:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 45,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/990143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pathologxst/pseuds/pathologxst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Reichenbach. Sherlock Holmes is now dead to the world, but Molly Hooper knows otherwise. As their lives slowly descend into danger, Sherlock finally comes to realise that Molly might be more than just "the pathologist" to him. But will he ever be able to admit that? (Rated E for explicit Sherlolly in later chapters)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

" _What do you need?"_

" _You."_

It had just been one simple word, nothing fancy, elegant or descriptive. Except the word had been uttered by one Sherlock Holmes – a brilliant detective and a genius of a man. A man whom others thought was a cold machine. The word had not been just a word. It had been imbued with desperation, fear, honesty and vulnerability. So much vulnerability, that she had heard his voice waver and crack when he came to her, choosing her as his helper. She didn't think that she would ever see this side of him; that he would ever _allow_ her to see this side of him. She remembered the relief written plainly on his face when she had readily offered her help. The way he had graced her with a look so full of affection, it had made her heart ache.

Molly chewed on her bottom lip as she waited for the body that would eventually come into the morgue. His body. She could see the commotion happening right outside Bart's, the passers-by dashing around for help, thinking that Sherlock Holmes had jumped to his death. That he had been too overwhelmed with shame at being discovered as a fraud and could not face the criticism that would come. She spotted John amidst the crowd and her heart started racing. She suppressed a sigh and paced around the cold lab, willing herself to calm down. The sound of someone clearing his throat forced her to stop and turn around.

Mycroft Holmes was seated at the corner of the lab, watching her with an impassive mask. She was pretty certain that he was studying her, wondering why his younger brother had chosen her for his elaborate plan to outwit Moriarty.

"You should calm down, Miss Hooper," he said, giving her a tight smile.

She nodded and forced herself to stand still. She had to be focused now, Sherlock was counting on her. She looked out of the lab windows and saw the paramedics bringing him into the hospital.

"I better get going," Mycroft said. "My work here is done."

Molly didn't question how he knew that Sherlock was being brought into Bart's at this exact moment. He probably deduced it from her body language or something similar. It became apparent very quickly to her that Mycroft Holmes was just as smart, if not smarter, than Sherlock. She gave the older Holmes a small smile as he rose to leave. They had barely exchanged a few words, but she could see that Mycroft was very concerned about his brother's well-being.

He turned around just before he opened the lab door. "Miss Hooper?"

"Yes?"

"I don't think my brother deserves you," he told her, flashing her that odd smile that looked like a cross between a smirk and a grimace. She had seen it that night during Christmas, when he had come into the morgue with Sherlock to identify a woman's body. The smile was extremely unsettling.

"We'll be in touch," he said, swinging his umbrella as he walked out.

Molly took a deep breath and straightened her back. It was time for her role in the plan.

* * *

"Please, Mike," she pleaded with her boss. "I need to do this."

"It's not good for you, Molly. I've assigned Sherlock's body to Doctor Portman instead." Everyone knew about her crush on Sherlock.

"It'll give me closure," she insisted. She had to be the one doing Sherlock's autopsy. It was the only way the plan would work. "Please."

Mike Stamford looked at her with pity in his eyes. Molly knew that he would let her do it. Sherlock had told her that Mike had a soft spot for her, probably because she reminded him of his younger sister whom he didn't get to see often. Apparently, she was living in South Africa.

"Ok," he relented with a sigh. "Come in tomorrow to do it. Take the rest of the day off, you'll need it."

Molly dug her fingers into her palm to stop the guilt from overwhelming her. She hated lying to people, but this had to be done. "Alright," she said faintly, managing a small smile. "Thank you so much, Mike."

* * *

Her first job was to treat whatever she could of Sherlock's injuries with the materials that Mycroft had provided, which were thankfully sufficient. She then proceeded to inject Sherlock's body with some strong painkillers, numbing the pain she knew he would be in when he finally regained consciousness. As she moved closer to his left arm, she saw the tell-tale signs of needle marks. Her hand paused in mid-air as she digested this information.

Sherlock Holmes had done drugs before. And judging from the severity of the faded marks, he had probably been an addict. This man lying in front of her on the cold slab had once been in a very dark place. He had been damaged before. And he was going to be damaged again, losing his old life. The realisation brought a huge lump in her throat and she swallowed hard, forcing herself to concentrate on injecting him with the medicine.

Molly pointedly refused to stare at the other dead body lying on the slab beside Sherlock. The body of the man who was the cause of all these problems. The man she had once dated. She had been so close to Jim Moriarty, even inviting him to her flat. He had sat on her sofa and played with her cat, Toby. The thought of that made her stomach churn.

She shook her head slightly and settled herself on a chair after disposing the needle, pushing those nauseating thoughts out of her mind and waiting for Sherlock to regain consciousness. It wouldn't take long.

Just as she had expected, Sherlock started to stir in a matter of minutes. She stood up quickly and went to his side, saying his name softly to assure him that he was fine.

"M-Molly?" he rasped, his voice barely recognisable.

"I'm here. You're alright, Sherlock. The plan worked."

"Obviously, or I won't be here." He winced as he tried to sit up, pushing her hands away when she tried to help. "I'm fine."

She suppressed the urge to sigh. She had predicted that he would be like this. Sherlock hated being weak and vulnerable, and coming to her for help had been crossing a line already.

"Where are the clothes?" he asked.

It took a while for Molly to realise that Sherlock was completely naked. She had been so pre-occupied with treating his injuries just now, she had neglected the fact that he was stark naked. Her eyes inevitably started to travel down his body, and she blushed furiously when she caught him looking at her.

"Er…they're here," she mumbled, quickly passing him some clothes Mycroft had given her. "You're going to need some help getting them on."

"No, I don't."

"But Sherlock, you're heavily bruised and you have a broken arm and rib." Even though he had figured out a plan to break his fall, there was only so much he could do.

He rolled his eyes and at her assessment and steadily ignored her as he stood up gingerly from the slab, wincing from the pain. Molly made a movement to go forward but shrank back when he glared at her. She watched him silently as he tried to put on his clothes – a shirt and a pair of jeans – afraid of doing something that would set him off.

It was only when it became apparent to Sherlock that he could not even bend properly that Molly stepped forward. She helped him with his jeans and slipped his shirt over his bruised body without a word, all the while avoiding his gaze. She finished dressing him quickly and went over to get his shoes.

"I – Thank you, Molly," he finally said softly.

Her heart broke a little at the sincerity of his tone. She knew she should be annoyed with him for being so stubborn, but she just couldn't find it in herself to be like that. After all, he had just lost everything in his life. "You're welcome," she said, passing him his shoes. She smiled a little when she saw the look of relief on his face when he found that he could at least slip his feet into his shoes without aid.

A dark look suddenly crossed his pale face and he hobbled over to Moriarty's slab, lifting the white sheet to stare at the dead body of his adversary. He stood there studying Moriarty's face, anger apparent in his blue eyes. After what seemed like eons, he finally looked away.

"Ready?" she asked gently.

He nodded, pulling the white sheet back over Moriarty.

This time, when she put her arms around his waist to support him out of the morgue, he didn't push her away.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock leaned against the wall as he waited for Molly to fish her house keys out of her bag. He could see her hands shaking slightly as she slipped her key into the lock. He wondered if it was because of fear or exhaustion. The reality of what he had just pulled off was starting to hit him, and he was sure that Molly was beginning to feel the heavy weight of the consequences that were to come as well.

"It's a little messy. And small," she informed him, looking embarrassed.

"Better this than going off with _Mycroft_ ," he replied, a slightly disgruntled look appearing on his face at the mention of his brother's name. He never liked to feel indebted to anyone and the fact that he had to approach Mycroft for his staged death frustrated him greatly.

It didn't help that his brother had even offered to house him while he healed. It was as if Mycroft thought him incapable of doing something as simple as finding accommodation. He could imagine his brother's smug expression if he had accepted his offer to stay at his house. Luckily for him though, Molly had offered her flat as well, which he was secretly grateful for. He didn't think that he could handle a night living with his older brother. They would probably be at each other's throat by morning.

Sherlock limped into her flat as she opened the door, taking in his new surroundings. It was, like Molly said, messy and small. There seemed to be only one bedroom, which Sherlock thought was odd since Molly probably had a decent pay as a pathologist. She must not have guests over often then. Or maybe she didn't want a large flat as it would only serve to remind her of her mostly solitary life. He remembered that he used to feel alone as a child in his large house after Mycroft had went off to boarding school. He learnt early on that emptiness was the worst reminder for loneliness.

There were many coffee mugs lying around and various novels were strewn on her sofa and coffee table. He spotted an odd mix of thrillers, science fiction and romance. Random pieces of clothing were thrown around the house as well. Sherlock wondered how someone who was so meticulous in her work could have a flat as messy as this. He realised with a start that he was exactly like her in this regard. 221B would've been in total chaos if Mrs Hudson and John did not clean up after him. The thought of them made his chest tighten dangerously and he swiftly cleared his mind.

He walked over to her sofa and plunked himself on it, wincing from the sudden stab of pain that issued from his broken rib. From the corner of his eyes, Sherlock could see Molly frantically trying to tidy her house. A handsome tabby suddenly jumped to his side, staring at him with large, inquisitive eyes.

"That's Toby. Don't worry about him, he's friendly." Molly smiled, happy to see a familiar face after a stressful day.

Toby stared at Sherlock a moment longer before deciding that he wasn't dangerous. Yawning, it curled up beside the consulting detective, who reached out and scratched its ears. It was warm and oddly comforting. The cat purred contentedly and snuggled closer to him.

Sherlock didn't look at Molly for a long while, preferring to focus his attention on the cat. He could feel the beginnings of fear, sadness, worry, anger and remorse building within him. The thought of a heartbroken John and Mrs Hudson, and the fact that he had to uncover Moriarty's criminal network before he could make sure his friends were completely safe worried him. He had tried so hard to suppress these emotions, but now that he was finally safe in Molly's house, the dreaded feelings were threatening to overcome him like an impending tsunami. He could feel them seeping out of his mind and into his body like poison, escaping from the rooms he had locked them in.

"Are you hungry?" Molly's soft voice drifted from his side, breaking him out of his reverie. "I can make some soup if you are."

"I'm not hungry."

"Do you want to shower then? I have some oversized shirts that you can –"

"Molly," he cut her off curtly. "I just want to rest now." He needed to be alone to properly access the situation he was in. That Molly was in. That everyone else was in. He would never admit it, but he was actually intimidated by the difficulty of the task ahead of him.

"Oh, right. Yes, of course. The bedroom is over there," she gestured to the corridor.

"The sofa will do."

"But your ribs and bruises -"

"I am fine, Molly." He knew that he was anything but fine. However, this was not the time to be asking for more help. He had already depended too much on her and if he went any further, he was not sure if he would cross another line. He had already crossed one when he exposed his feelings to her in the lab last night.

He turned away, expecting her to leave him alone. But Molly had other ideas.

"No, you're not fine. You can't sleep on the sofa with a broken rib!" she said, her voice rising slightly.

"Yes I can," he answered defiantly.

"Sherlock -"

Something in him snapped when he heard his name. _Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock_. Why couldn't people just leave him alone? They wouldn't be in this mess if they had just left him alone. Moriarty wouldn't have been able to use them against him if he didn't have any friends.

"Molly. Leave. Me. Alone," he said shortly, his own voice rising. "Maybe you should spend your time reading some of those hopeless romance novels I see lying around. Or why don't you make it a fun night by whipping up a dish in a kitchen that you so obviously don't use at all? Judging by the fact that it seems to be the _only_ clean place in this house."

He heard her huff out a breath of air sharply. Good. Now she would leave him be.

"Fine. I'll leave you to it then," she said, her voice trembling slightly. He had to force himself not to look at her face. He didn't want to know what his words had done to her.

The sound of her bedroom door closing loudly was not as satisfying as he thought it would be.

 

 

* * *

Molly sat on her bed, finally allowing her tears to flow freely in the comfort and secrecy of her bedroom. She breathed out a sigh of frustration. She knew that Sherlock was probably worried and scared, which made him defensive, but his words had stung. She closed her eyes tightly in an attempt stop her tears. She couldn't give in to her emotions now; it would just make the current situation worse.

But exhaustion weakened her will power. She wondered how much more of his meanness she could tolerate before she would finally snap as well. There was only so much she could take, and things did not seem to be going well. She lay on her bed, staring into oblivion and wishing that Toby was beside her. Her cat, surprisingly enough, seemed to have taken a liking to Sherlock.

 

* * *

_I am sorry, Molly. Forgive me. – SH_

Sherlock hit 'send' and tried lying on the sofa again. It quickly became apparent that his legs were too long and every time he tried to turn his body, a sharp stab of pain erupted from his ribs. He gave up and decided to check on his broken arm instead. He was just in the process of tenderly prodding his right arm when he heard the soft turn of Molly's bedroom doorknob. He inwardly breathed a sigh of relief.

Molly came out of her room tentatively, anger still apparent in her eyes. But one look at the grimace on Sherlock's face and the anger she felt dissipated immediately. She quickly went to sit beside him, concern reflected in her warm, brown eyes. "Do you need more painkillers?"

He shook his head and they soon descended into comfortable silence. His thoughts started to move towards Molly. He could not understand why she cared so much for him. He knew he wasn't the easiest person to be around. How he had lashed out at her just now was a testament to that fact. And yet, despite the numerous times he had hurt her, she still came back. She had offered her help in a heartbeat; she had shown him so much loyalty.

"Why do you care so much about me?" he asked her suddenly.

"I…" she started to blush. “You know why," she finally said, playing with her fingers nervously.

He did. Or he thought he did. He remembered how she had applied lipstick whenever he was around, and how she would stare at him when she thought he wasn't looking. How she had meticulously wrapped his Christmas present last year, which he realised guiltily, had not been opened at all. The answer was right in front of him. But that didn't mean he could easily _believe_ it. It seemed too surreal.

"It's late, you need to rest," she said, changing the topic quickly. "Would you please take the bed?"

Sherlock looked at her and felt a rare rush of affection. He gave her a small nod of assent.

 

 

* * *

It was well past midnight and Molly was curled up on her lumpy sofa in a deep sleep. Sherlock was in her bedroom, the door slightly ajar just in case he needed anything. The entire flat was quiet save for Toby, who was busy trying to catch an insect that had flew in from the window, his bright green eyes gleaming with excitement.

Suddenly, a loud moan echoed through the hallway. Molly stirred in her sleep before opening her eyes. When she realised that the moan had come from her bedroom, she sprung out of her sofa in a state of panic.

"Sherlock!" she cried, pushing the bedroom door roughly. Fear clouded her mind when she saw him.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed. Sweat was dripping profusely from his face and his shirt was completely soaked. His fingers were pressed to his temples and his eyes were closed. What scared Molly was the fact that his hands were trembling.

"Sherlock?" she whispered. "Are you alright?"

"Just a dream," he replied curtly, still not removing his fingers from his temples.

Molly moved over to the bed and hesitated before sitting down. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No." He needed to clear the memory of his dream – delete it from his mind. But the images had been so vivid that he was going to need some time. John's anguished face and Moriarty's triumphant one was still burning in his retina.

"Sherlock you're shaking," Molly said softly. She wanted to reach out and touch his hand but controlled herself.

"Yes. Mere effects of a nightmare, Molly. Or haven't you experienced one before?"

"Well, it helps to talk about what's scaring you."

"I am not scared! And stop looking at me like that. There is nothing wrong with me!" he stated indignantly, his voice rising with every word.

"Sherlock, it's alright to feel afraid."

"I'm not afraid," he reiterated.

"Yes you are," she said gently. You're worried about what's going to happen to John and Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. And you need to dismantle Moriarty's network before you can clear your name…" Molly trailed off, unsure if she had just made the matter worse by reminding him of his task. She half-expected him to lash out at her again for making him out to be some vulnerable human being.

He did no such thing. He removed his fingers from his temples and looked at her. "You didn't include yourself."

"Sorry?"

"You said I was worried about what's going to happen to John, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. You didn't include yourself."

"Oh…I figured -"

"That I wouldn't care about what happened to you," he finished for her.

"No, I figured I'd do my best to be fine so you wouldn't have to worry about me. You'll work better if you didn't have so many people to worry about," she attempted to smile.

He looked away from her for a while, his breathing gradually calming down. "What do you do after a nightmare?" he enquired quietly.

"Warm milk," Molly said without a second thought.

"What?"

Molly felt her face burning. She realised that warm milk sounded like something a child would drink. "I er…usually drink a glass of warm milk. Do you want some?" she asked, sounding more confident than she actually felt. She thought Sherlock would laugh at her offer or make some cruel deduction about her habits. But he surprised her by giving a small nod.

She soon returned to the bedroom with a glass of milk and two sleeping pills. He had removed his sweat-soaked shirt and was looking a lot more peaceful. He muttered a thank you and gulped down his milk and pills. It took everything Molly had to not jump forward and hug him.

The effect of the pills soon kicked in and she saw him starting to get drowsy. He lay down on the bed, his eyelids drooping slowly. She took the opportunity to slip her hand in his, hoping that it would provide him some comfort. She was glad when he didn't shake her hand away.

"Molly?"

"Hmm?"

"Do you want to sleep on the bed too?"

"What? No, of course not!" she said, her cheeks turning red again.

"Why? There's more than enough space and your sofa is only suitable for a cat to sleep on."

Molly bit back a smile. Even in his drowsy state, his criticising skills were working perfectly.

"Oh. You don't want to because it's one of those intimate things?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes."

They remained silent for the next few minutes and Molly thought that he had fallen asleep. She was just about to let go out his hand when he mumbled her name again.

"What is it, Sherlock?"

"You smell like vanilla. I hope you have another shampoo I can use, Molly. I don't fancy smelling like vanilla tomorrow."

"I think I have a mint scented one."

"Good."

Molly laughed softly. Drowsy Sherlock was the funniest thing she had ever seen. Her heart swelled when she saw that he had finally fallen asleep, his chest rising and falling gently. He looked so innocent and angelic when rest claimed him.

She brushed a few stray curls away from his face before giving him a tender kiss on his forehead. Hoping that he would not be haunted by anymore nightmares tonight, Molly turned off the lights and closed the bedroom door softly.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Molly slipped on a pair of medical gloves before starting her autopsy on “Sherlock’s” body. True to his words, Mycroft had ensured that a body resembling Sherlock would be in the morgue when she came in the following morning. She marvelled at how similar this body was to the consulting detective who was currently sulking around her flat, annoyed that he couldn’t get anything done as of yet. The hair, facial structure and body size were so alike that Molly shivered slightly. She had no idea that such manipulation on a body was possible.

The results of the autopsy were straightforward. Blunt force trauma to the head, a broken neck, several broken bones and internal bleeding. It was immediate death upon impact. She swallowed hard as she recalled Sherlock’s body plummeting down from the roof of Bart’s, his long coat billowing in the wind. He had been so close to death, and if he hadn’t solved Moriarty’s problem, she would be staring down at his broken body instead. Never again would she have been able to listen to him make a clever deduction, or watch him working on one of his samples in her lab. The reality of how _close_ he actually was to dying hit her, and she promised herself that she would do all she could to make sure she would not see him lying on her slab.

She wondered about how John and the others must be feeling, thinking that this was indeed reality. It was horrible knowing that she had the truth but couldn’t do anything about it. For a moment, she felt like the villain, the one who was causing all the pain to the people whom Sherlock called his friends. It was stupid really, since she wasn’t the one who started this mess. But logic didn’t seem able to quell the rush of guilt that had been frequently washing over her for the past two days.   

Molly was glad that Doctor Portman had agreed to do the autopsy on James Moriarty. She normally wasn’t a violent person, but she couldn’t be sure what she would’ve done if she had his dead body in front of her with a scalpel in her hands.

The horror of what she had just thought of doing stunned her. What was happening to her? There was an anger chorusing through her that she had never felt before. She shook her head and went back to the work, slowly descending into the regular routine of an autopsy.

When she was finally done, she locked the corpse into the body locker with a loud click, as if the finality of the sound could put an end to the guilt that had been building up as she was working. Realising that nothing was going to work, she took out her phone and dialled a number.

“Hello?” His voice was hoarse from crying, and a lump immediately formed in her throat when she heard it.

“Hey John, it’s Molly,” she replied, trying her best to compose her trembling voice.

“Molly, hi. I’m sorry I didn’t call you or anything…”

“It’s ok. We’re all still trying to deal with it. I just wanted to know how you’re holding up.”

“I’m ok. I’m still trying to come to terms with it. It all seems so unreal, you know?”

“Yeah, I know,” she said heavily. _You have no idea,_ she thought.

“What about you? Are you ok?”

“I’ll be alright, John.”

“That’s good. What are you doing now?”

“I’m at work.”

“At work? So you…his body…”

“Yeah, I was the one in charge.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” She heard a sniff.

“It’s ok, it sort of gives me closure.” She shut her eyes tightly and tried to breathe steadily.

“Yeah, I guess it does that... Listen, was there, you know, anything odd about the body?”

Molly’s tears threatened to spill out of her eyes at the hopeful tone of his voice. She wanted to yell at him that Sherlock was fine, that he had survived the bloody fall. But she couldn’t. She would jeopardise the whole situation and Sherlock would probably kill her himself.

“No,” she whispered into her phone.

“Oh, right.” She could hear the dejection in his voice and her chest tightened.

“Listen, John. If you need anything, anything at all, just call me ok? Even if it’s just to talk, or if you just need some company. Just call me.”

She heard a something that sounded like a choke. “Thanks. You can call me too, Molly.”

“I’m alright. Don’t worry about me.”

“It’s hard not to. You…I know you liked him a lot.”

“I did.” _Still do,_ she thought.

“This is a mess, isn’t it?” he said, his voice shaking.

She didn’t reply him. She couldn’t bring herself to.

“Well, his funeral is next week. So I’ll er…see you then?”

“Right, see you John. Please take care of yourself. Remember to call if you need anything.”

“Sure, thanks Molly. Bye now.”

The tears she tried to control started to flow down her cheeks after she ended the call. She wondered how long more she could keep up the lie.

* * *

Sherlock sat across the sofa from Mycroft, a snarky look in his eyes. He had expected the arrival of his brother, but he didn’t think that he would actually come to find him the very next day. He was still in a physically weak state and did not want his brother to see him like this. Mycroft had merely smiled calmly at him when he had limped over to open the door. It had put Sherlock in a bad mood ever since.

“Why are you here?” Sherlock asked, his voice sounding harsh even to his own ears.

Mycroft arched his eyebrows at his tone. “To visit you of course, dear brother. You’re hurt.”

“Don’t be absurd. I’m alive and well.”

“Alive, yes. But surely not well. How’s the rib?”

“Get to the point,” Sherlock snapped.

A solemn expression instantly settled on Mycroft’s face. “I need to know what your plan is.”

“Track them down, of course. That’s the only way to dismantle the network.”

“You don’t need to track everyone. That’s impossible.”

“I know. I just need those loyal to Moriarty.”

Mycroft nodded and handed him a file. “Sebastian Moran,” he said simply.

“His pet?” Sherlock flipped through the pages, taking in as much information as he could. Moran was apparently an ex-general from the army. Traditional, inflexible and brave.

“Yes, and unfortunately, he’s not a psychopath like his master. He is capable of forming lasting relationships and has a group of loyal friends you need to track down as well. How many of them there are still remains a mystery.”

Sherlock frowned. He had hoped that Moriarty would not have many loyal followers. He certainly didn’t have any friends, that part was obvious. He had no idea about friendship and affection. But this Moran was different. He was more social, more _normal._ He couldn’t take him down without tracking down his loyal followers within the network as well.

“I’ve already sent a few of my people undercover. They should have some information ready for me soon,” Mycroft said.

“But they’re idiots.”

“They are the British intelligence. Give them some credit, will you?”

He smirked and his brother frowned at him. “What do you have in mind then, Sherlock?”

“I’m still thinking.”

“Which means you have no concrete plan. While you’re still _thinking,_ let my agents do their job. You do want to return to 221B Baker Street soon, don’t you?”

“Of course,” he replied, frowning at his brother’s condescending tone.

Mycroft reached into his briefcase and pulled out another set of documents. “Your new identity.”

Sherlock opened the file. He was now known as Ryan Cumberbatch. A chemist. 35 years old. An orphan who grew up in Surrey. He knew that he was going to have to operate under a new identity after his fall, but that didn’t stop him from feeling slightly sick when he stared at his new passport. Sherlock Holmes was well and truly dead to the world now.   

“Well, I have to be off,” Mycroft said, standing up. “I have a meeting with some politicians from China and -” He saw the look on Sherlock’s face. “- but you don’t need to know that, do you?”

“Naturally.”

“Goodbye, Sherlock. Try not to be a nuisance to Miss Hooper. No one else can tolerate you long enough to house you, I’m afraid.” Mycroft smiled tightly at him before walking out.

Sherlock threw the file against the wall and scowled.

* * *

Molly was exhausted by the time she reached home. Not only had she had to deal with her colleagues enquiring about her well-being, forcing her to lie again, she had also received a call from her mother.

It wasn’t very often her mother called her. After all, she was living in New York and they had barely met in the last ten years. Her parents had divorced when she was just a child, and her mother had went off with some man, travelling around Europe and sending birthday cards a month late. For a long time, Molly had tried her best to impress her mother, thinking that making her proud would bring her back home. It was only much later that she realised the problem didn’t lie with her. She could still clearly remember the disgust etched in her mother’s voice when she had found out that Molly wanted to be a pathologist. To her mother, pathology was something abominable and repulsive. It gave Molly a sense of satisfaction when she had told her mother she was going ahead with that career choice anyway.

It turned out that her mother had finally heard about Sherlock being a fraud. She knew he had worked with Molly often in the labs, and she wanted some gossip for her friends, who were apparently fans of John’s blog.

Molly had wanted to scream at her mother for being so insensitive. But instead, she had curtly told her that she had to work and hung up before she could say another word. She had turned her phone off after that.

She sighed as she took off her coat, hoping that Sherlock was in a much better mood than she was. She saw him on her sofa in one of her dad’s old shirt, idly stroking Toby’s head. She smiled when she realised that he might very well be a cat person like her.

“You’re in a bad mood,” he noted.

“Bad day,” she said as she placed the takeaway boxes on her coffee table, plonking herself beside him. She was so tired that she didn’t care if she looked graceful in front of Sherlock or not.

She passed him a packet of nicotine patches which he gratefully accepted, immediately plastering one on his left arm.

“What happened?”

She was surprised that he was interested to know about her mundane life, but she figured that he was probably too bored being on his own the whole day. She started to fill him in on her day, pausing when she talked about John. But he had merely nodded stiffly and asked her to continue, saying that his grief was expected and normal.

He in turn, told her about Mycroft’s visit. Well, his version of Mycroft’s visit anyway, which consisted of him focusing on his brother’s failed attempt at a new diet and the horrible surname he had been assigned. He sounded exactly like a stroppy teenager and she had a hard time trying not to laugh.

Molly relaxed as she listened to him talk, his deep baritone pleasing to her ears. It was odd; they had never spent time outside the lab like this before, and it was actually rather enjoyable. It was like they were actual friends having a meal together. It had only been two days since he bid his former life goodbye, but a lot had happened since then. Emotionally at least. She could feel a bond developing between them. One that wasn’t just restricted to their relationship in the lab.

Despite the horrible day she just had, the thought of that raised her spirits.     

* * *

It was late but Sherlock couldn’t sleep. His slim fingers were steepled under his chin as he leaned against Molly’s soft pillows, trying to formulate a plan to bring down the network. He was frustrated that he couldn’t get to work right away, but what good would he be if he couldn’t even walk properly right now? Going undercover in his current state would just draw attention to himself.

He knew he couldn’t work alone; it was going to take years if he did. And he wanted nothing more than to return to his previous life with John, Baker Street and his cases.

He needed a skilled blackmailer to help him then. One who would be able to slip into the ranks of the network and infect it from within, drawing out the poison and reducing it to insignificance. The person must be intelligent and manipulative – it was going to be a task filled with challenging mind games.

And just like that, he knew exactly who to contact. He quickly fired off a text.

_I believe you owe me a debt. – SH_

**_Why the sudden need for my services? Can I offer you something else too? You know I’ll be delighted to._ **

_Don’t play games. I’m sure you’ve read the news. – SH_

**_Oh don’t be so uptight! Of course I did. Thought you died though. Where and when do I meet you?_ **

_In two months’ time. London. – SH_

**_Lovely. See you very soon, detective!_ **

Sherlock rolled his eyes before flinging his phone to the other end of the bed.


	4. Chapter 4

Molly worried her lower lip as she paced around her living room, waiting for the minutes to tick by before she would leave her flat and head towards the cemetery. Beside her, Sherlock was typing into a laptop that Mycroft had passed him yesterday, seemingly oblivious to her anxiety.

It was only when she started cracking her knuckles loudly did he look up from his computer, an annoyed expression on his face. “Relax, Molly. It’s just a funeral.”

“Just a funeral?” she echoed, completely astounded that he thought that way. It wasn’t _just_ a funeral to her. She would have to put up a façade again, acting like she’s mourning over his death while he was sitting in her flat. She would have to face the others for the first time since he jumped, and she wasn’t sure she could handle seeing the pain on their faces or hear the sadness in their voices. She was afraid that she might accidentally blurt out the truth as well. But Sherlock didn’t seem to think so, since he was unnervingly calm.

“You already know I’m not dead,” he said in a patronising tone. “So you’re spared from the emotional pain that comes with my death. Just go there and put on an act. It’s very simple.”

Molly suppressed an urge to snap at him. It wasn’t wise to get angry before going for a sad ceremony. But she was stuck in a constant limbo between wanting to tell the truth and needing to keep the secret to protect them, which was making her more short-tempered than usual.

Her flat suddenly felt very stuffy and she desperately wanted to feel the cool air against her skin. It would probably help her clear her head as well. She slipped on her coat and was just about to walk out her door when Sherlock called her.

“What?”

“Remember to cry convincingly,” he said nonchalantly, before resuming his typing.

It was fortunate that Molly didn’t have anything close by to throw at him.

* * *

There were only three of them at the funeral. There was no religious figure present to deliver a farewell since Sherlock was an atheist and would scoff at the whole idea. There was no headstone erected yet as well, and the only indication that there was a coffin there was the absence of grass on the patch of soil that had been dug up.

Molly stood between John and Mrs Hudson, alternating between trying to console each of them. Mrs Hudson was sobbing openly, while John tried his best to control his tears, only allowing a few to slide down his chin.

It turned out that Sherlock didn’t have to worry about her not being able to cry convincingly at all. Her tears came naturally the moment she saw John and Mrs Hudson’s grieving faces. Both of them looked to be in a horrible state, with John being worse off. The shadows under his eyes were darkened and stood out prominently. His eye bags looked bigger and his skin was sallow. The only comfort Molly got was that his limp had not yet returned.

She put an arm around Mrs Hudson and tried to soothe the old lady with some comforting words, softly telling her that Sherlock would never have wanted to see her crying over his death like this. Everyone knew she had seen Sherlock as her own son, and the fact that she thought he had departed this world before her was absolutely heart-breaking. Molly’s other hand held John’s own, and he was gripping it tightly as if it was the last precious thing in the world.

After a while, John moved forward to place the bouquet of white lilies that he had brought along on the soil.

“I know he hated sentimental things like these but I…” He sniffed, wiping the tears away from his cheeks.

“I think he would’ve appreciated it, John,” Molly whispered. “He felt more than he let on.”

John gave her a wobbly smile before holding her hand again. They stood there in silence for a long time, momentarily united by the one man they all loved so much.

* * *

Sherlock was standing in the perfect position. A large statue easily obscured him from the view of the three who were mourning his passing, making him able to watch them secretly. He also had a good view of the entire graveyard, which would give him ample of time to escape if he saw a suspicious figure lurking about. He knew he was risking detection being out in public so soon, and Mycroft would reprimand him if he knew, but pride had forced him here. He wanted to see how his death was affecting his friends. He knew it was rather revolting that he was concerned about his worth to others while they were still grieving, but if the words of the majority were anything to go by, he did have a large ego.

He huffed out a breath of air quietly as he took in the sight several metres away. It was clearly obvious that all three of them were crying, and it seemed like Molly was doing a commendable job of keeping up her façade. He swallowed hard when he saw Mrs Hudson sobbing into Molly’s shoulder, feeling a strong rush of guilt in the pit of his stomach. She had always been a mother figure to him, more so than his own mother, who didn’t really bother about his affairs. She probably felt disgraced by his “suicide” and had opted not to come for the funeral. She had always cared more about her status than her family anyway. Mycroft probably excused himself by lying about having some meeting of national importance.

He frowned a little when he saw John placing some lilies on the ground. He wanted to laugh at the sentimentality of such an action. A dead man was never going to know even if one placed a thousand stalks of flowers on his grave. But somehow, he found himself unable to disregard this act of respect and affection. It was oddly comforting to know that John cared for him enough to want to offer him something even in death.

He took one last look at them before walking out of the cemetery.

* * *

Molly sat across John at a café table, silently sipping her coffee while the army doctor stared out of the window absently, watching the throng of people on the streets. Mrs Hudson had declined coming along, choosing to go back to her herbal soothers and telly instead. Molly had wanted to rush back home after the funeral and bury herself under her blankets with Toby, but she knew that John needed some company.

She could see that something was bothering him. He was chewing on his lower lip incessantly and his eyebrows were creased deeply, as if he was in deep thought. She could hear the light drumming of his fingers on his knee.

“Why do you think he said that?” he finally asked, breaking the silence.

“Sorry?”

“Sherlock told me he was a fraud right before he jumped,” he explained, a pained expression in his eyes. “Why would he say that?”

“He probably thought you would get over his death more easily that way.”

“But he was my _friend_ , Molly. He should know that I will never believe that lie.”

“Well, he wasn’t exactly the best reader of emotions and relationships, was he?”

“No,” he agreed. “For a genius, he really was an idiot.” He let out a soft chuckle as he remembered something. A look of horror crossed his face when he realised he had actually dared to do that. Molly reached over and touched his hand.

“It’s not wrong to laugh sometimes, you know. It might seem horrible at first, but that’s the only way you’re going to be able move on.” She remembered the very first time she had laughed after her father’s death, and how she had hated herself for that, only to realise that it was crucial to healing emotionally.

John graced her with a soft smile. “You’re really great, you know that?” Molly blushed at his comment, not used to compliments. “And you probably don’t believe it, but I know Sherlock was fond of you.”

Molly shook her head. She knew he was trying to make her feel better, and it just made her stomach sink more. “I highly doubt that.”

“No, you don’t understand,” John said. “That Christmas, when he apologised to you…it was unbelievable.”

“He was probably just feeling remorseful.”

“Yes, but he _never_ apologises for his deductions. He made an exception for you. If that wasn’t something significant, then I don’t know what is,” he smiled. “I just wish he had been brave enough to tell you that before he…” he trailed off and looked out of the window again.

They descended into silence once more, Molly choosing to leave John to his thoughts. He was frowning again, but at least he was drinking his coffee now. Any calories he could get into his body would be good at this point. She was pretty certain he hadn’t been eating well, and it worried her. She made a mental note to invite him out more often. That way, she could make sure that he at least ate something while he was with her.

“Are you still staying at Baker Street?” she asked him gently. Sherlock would probably want to know about that.

He shook his head. “I’m at my sister’s now. Can’t bring myself to go back yet.”

“I understand.”

“Maybe I might leave London soon too,” he muttered, a distant look coming into his eyes.

Molly knew this would come eventually. John had far too many memories of Sherlock and London. It was the city where they had met, the city where they had become friends, the city where they had solved crimes in. She knew it would be better if he stayed someplace else for a while. But it still didn’t stop her from feeling as if someone had placed a large boulder on her chest.

* * *

The sun was beginning to set when Molly finally reached home. The moment she unlocked the door to her flat, she knew that something was terribly wrong. It was far too quiet. Her heart started racing and she called out his name.

It took her a minute before her panic-filled mind finally accepted the truth.

Sherlock was gone.


	5. Chapter 5

The first thing Molly did after her hands had stopped shaking was to phone Mycroft. The older Holmes was apparently at home, and was seemingly annoyed at being disturbed until he realised the reason behind her call. He had sounded calm and emotionless over the phone, but she thought she heard a tiny flicker of dismay in his usually cold voice. They ended the call quickly, with Mycroft suggesting that she stayed in her flat in case Sherlock came back. She knew he was merely humouring her, probably because he detected the rising hysteria in her voice despite her best efforts to conceal it. If he thought it would make her feel better, he was wrong.

She couldn’t believe that Sherlock was gone. That he had left without even bothering to say goodbye. There was no note, no text. His clothes were still in her bedroom. The only important things missing were his trademark Belstaff and his dark blue scarf – he couldn’t be bothered to change his clothing style despite being dead. Molly collapsed onto the sofa and buried her face in her hands, trying to steady her breathing. His departure shouldn’t come as a shock to her. After all, she had been expecting it, waiting for the day she would come back to an empty house. But she had foolishly hoped that he would at least think that she counted enough to inform her. Especially after what he had told her in the lab that night.

She leaned back and closed her eyes. It was as if someone had dug out a hole in the middle of her chest. The thought of waiting hopelessly until Mycroft phoned her again was agonising. It might be hours before he discovered anything, and she was already restless. She wasn’t even sure if he would phone her. If Sherlock had walked out of her life, then her role in the plan was finished. She was no longer useful and there was no practical reason for Mycroft to inform her of Sherlock’s whereabouts. And Mycroft Holmes was all about practicality.  

Her mind screamed at her to do something. She should try and look for him, to see if he was alright. It was stupid, since she knew Sherlock could not be found if he didn’t want to be. But anything was better than just sitting around, waiting for a call that might never come.

* * *

Molly never fully appreciated the term ‘a needle in a haystack’ until now. She walked aimlessly for hours until her calves ached, searching every street she passed, even resorting to looking at alleyways. In a desperate attempt, she even peeked into a few coffee shops and god help her, pubs. She had tried calling him a few times too, but his phone remained turned off.

As the hours flew by, the heavy weight in her chest deepened. She desperately fought the tears burning at the back of her eyes, not wanting to break down in public. She knew that if one tear escaped, many more would follow. She wasn’t even sure if she was looking for him anymore, or just trying to soothe the dull ache of her heart.

The sky was a dark blanket when her stubborn mind finally accepted the fact that Sherlock was well and truly gone. Thunder clouds rolled overhead and a chill breeze ruffled her already tangled hair. Molly tightened her scarf around her neck and made her way into the park near her house. It was definitely going to rain soon, but she didn’t care. She was not yet ready to go home and stare at the empty space where he was supposed to be. She sat on a bench and closed her eyes, her mind wandering to the past week that Sherlock had stayed with her.

Living with him hadn’t been easy at all. He was prone to abrupt mood changes, and he sometimes took his frustration out on her, especially when he couldn’t find his nicotine patches among the mess he had created. And she learnt early on that he had no sense of self-consciousness and privacy at all – he had tried to break into her bathroom on his third night, claiming that he needed to use the toilet and that she was taking too long to bathe. It was only when she had shouted at him (the first time she did that) did he back away from the door reluctantly.

But she also enjoyed spending time with him. He made her laugh with his witty remarks. His commentaries while watching telly were amusing, and he was an interesting conversationalist. He was one of the few who weren’t disgusted by her talks about autopsies. In fact, he always participated enthusiastically when she spoke about anatomy. He was also caring in his unique way, waking her up once for work when she had been too exhausted to hear her alarm ringing. Granted, he had shouted at her to get up, but he had been kind enough to make her a cup of coffee before retreating into his mind palace for the day. What she loved most of all was the fact that she was gradually seeing the layers of human beneath his cold exterior. She only caught glimpses of them, but they only made her love him more.

She realised too late that tears were dripping down her cheeks. She was going to miss him, and he wasn’t even gone for a day. A loud clap of thunder sounded across the sky at that moment, and the first drops of rain fell, merging with her tears. She hastily got up from the bench and was just about to make a dash for her flat when she came into contact with something large and hard.

Startled, Molly looked up and saw a burly man smiling down at her, a hungry glint in his eyes. She saw two other men behind him, watching her like a pack of wolves. She backed away from them slowly, her pulse beating hard against her skin. Her mouth opened in fear.

“Hello, sweetheart. How can a pretty girl like you be alone in the park at night?” the burly man spoke softly, as if talking to a vulnerable prey, doomed to die.

Molly continued backing away, her eyes darting frantically around, hoping to catch a glimpse of someone nearby to scream for help. But it was raining and close to midnight, so no one else was around. The trio of men advanced towards her, never breaking eye contact. Realising that there was no other alternative, Molly swallowed hard to compose herself.

Then, she ran.

She only made it a few metres before a pair of strong arms grabbed her from behind, causing her to lose her balance. Her arms flailed in the air before someone pinned them behind her. Before she could process the dire situation she was in, she was dragged behind a huge tree and flung to the ground. Her head hit a protruding tree root and a sharp pain erupted from her temple. Groaning, Molly tried to sit up, only to have one of them press her body down again. She yelled and thrashed against the unwelcome body heat, but her cries for help were easily muffled by a hand. Tears of fear and panic were streaming down her face as she tried to aim a kick at the man sitting on her, which only motivated him more.

Rough fingers unbuttoned her coat, and she heard a rip as one of the men pulled it off her gracelessly. She shut her eyes tightly and dug her fingers into her palms, her cries never stopping. Just as her top blouse button was tore open, she heard a shout. The voice got steadily louder and she heard footsteps running towards them. The men pinning her down immediately got up and ran, cursing under their breaths as they disappeared into the darkness.

Molly sat up shakily, her breathing loud and heavy. Blood was trickling down the side of her head and her lips were pale with fear. A lean man appeared, looking down at her with concern. He muttered something like “bloody bastards” under his breath before squatting beside her and placing an arm on her shoulder. She flinched and made an odd noise that sounded like a yelp. He immediately moved his hand away, raising it in surrender.

“It’s ok,” he murmured. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m Joe. What’s your name?”

“M-Molly.”

“Molly. That’s a lovely name. Can you stand?”

She closed her eyes for a while before nodding.

“Ok, that’s good. Molly, I’m going to hold your left hand, but it’s only to help you up, ok? I promise I’m not going to do anything else. Is that alright?”

She nodded again and he took her hand, slowly pulling her up. She grimaced as she stood up, feeling the bruises from where the men had pinned her down.

“There you go,” he said softly. “Do you need me to help you call a cab?”

“No, it’s…it’s fine. My flat is…it’s nearby. I can…walk there,” she stuttered, shivering from the cold.

“Are you sure? I think you should see a doctor first, Molly.”

“I think I just have super…superficial wounds. I can tend to…them myself.” She used her scarf to gently wipe some of the blood away.

“Alright,” Joe said, sounding unconvinced. But he didn’t want to push her further. “Need me to walk you home?”

“No, it’s alright. My flat’s just…just five minutes away.”

“Ok then. But remember to see a doc if anything comes up.”

“Thank you so much, Joe. Thank you,” she reached out to clasp his hand in gratitude.

He gave her a soft smile. “You’re welcome.”

* * *

The moment Molly reached home, she slumped onto the floor and sobbed, her entire body shaking from exhaustion. Toby came towards her, rubbing his body along her legs in greeting. She reached out to cuddle him, his warm body soft and comforting. He meowed a little in protest before giving up and letting her stroke his head.

Just then, she heard the click of her lock. Someone was entering her flat. Fear gripped her again and she let go of Toby, standing unsteadily. She realised too late that she had nothing to protect herself with. The door finally clicked open and her jaw unhinged itself.


	6. Chapter 6

The first thing Sherlock registered as he stepped into the flat was that Molly was hurt. He immediately moved towards her, pushing his dripping curls away from his forehead to get a better look at the injured pathologist. It only took him one look to deduce that some men, three apparently, had tried to rape her. A sudden rage burnt in him and he wanted to pursue those bastards. But the men were probably far away now, so it was unfeasible.

Shock was reflected in Molly’s eyes and surprise was clearly etched on her exhausted face. Her mouth was agape as she stared back at him, her arms limp by her sides. For the life of him, he couldn’t comprehend why she was looking at him as if he were a ghost.

“Molly?” He approached her hesitantly, not quite sure how to react in such a situation.

“Where…” she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Where were you?”

“I went for a walk.”

“A walk?”

“Yes. I was bored,” he shrugged. Something was wrong, and it had to do with him. He could tell from the way she clenched her fists as her eyes travelled down his face. In fact, her entire body was tensing up. She seemed to have forgotten that she was hurt and was just steadily staring at him.

“And ah, you didn’t bother to leave a note? Or send me a text?” her voice rose with every word, getting shriller by the second.

Oh. There was his answer. He hadn’t bothered to inform her of his whereabouts. But why should he? He always did what he wanted to do, and she was not his handler. Except that he wasn’t supposed to be out in public yet. He did not tell her he was going to his own funeral. Or that he needed some time to think after watching John and Mrs Hudson cry in front of his grave. That even though he knew he needed to stay away to keep his friends safe, he still couldn’t help feeling guilty, and then feeling _weak_ for being guilty over something that wasn’t his fault _._ That he just needed some time away from anything that reminded him of his previous life.

And she had been terrified that he had just left her without saying goodbye. She had gone in search of him, only to meet some bastards who wanted to rape her. For the second time that day, he felt a deep rush of guilt, and he tried to suppress it in frustration. He was in danger of lashing out at Molly, blaming her for making him feel such things again just when he had gotten them under control. But her injured form stirred something protective within him and he found himself unable to make her his punching bag, as much as he wanted to.

“I didn’t think a note was necessary since it was just a walk.”

“You…you weren’t planning on leaving yet?”

He rolled his eyes. “Molly, don’t be ridiculous. Where would I go? I’m still injured and can hardly go chasing down Moriarty’s men now. And I would tell you when I’m going away.”

Something akin to relief crossed her face and he saw her unclench her fists. They stood staring at each other for a while, and Sherlock started to feel slightly uncomfortable from the intensity of her gaze.  

“You were attacked by three men who tried to rape you, unsuccessfully of course,” he stated matter-of-factly, wanting to steer the attention away from him. But she didn’t seem to have heard him.

Before he knew what was going on, she flung herself forward and wrapped her arms around his waist. He stiffened immediately, unused to the intimacy and surprised by her forwardness.

“You idiot,” she whispered into his chest. “You bloody idiot. I thought you went away for good.” And then she was sobbing, her tears soaking into his already drenched coat.

Sherlock briefly entertained the idea of stepping away from her hug, but a small voice (which sounded eerily like John’s) told him it was rude to do that. She was crying, which meant that she needed comfort. From what he observed, hugs were supposed to be comforting, even if he personally didn’t like them. He decided that hugging her back was the least he could do after what she had gone through because of him. 

He awkwardly placed his good arm around her, feeling the weight of her body pressed against his. His hand came into contact with her skin and he realised she was dreadfully cold. Because it was the most logical thing to do, he pulled her a little closer, so that the heat from his body could transfer over to hers. She let out a contented sigh and wrapped her arms tighter around him. He was just coming to the conclusion that this hugging thing could feel rather nice when he felt her stiffen and pull away.

“Oh my god,” she said, her eyes widening. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t…I mean…the hug, I didn’t mean to…I was –“

“Molly.” He disliked it when she rambled. And she was rambling because she was afraid he was offended by her hug, and he didn’t like that she thought that way. And the _why_ of it bothered him. Why should he care about how she felt towards him?

“Sorry,” she mumbled.

“It’s quite alright.”

“So erm…I’ll just go have a hot shower and then you can use the bathroom.” With that, she hurried into the toilet, leaving him to process the curious new sensations he had just experienced.

* * *

It took a while for Sherlock to convince Molly to take the bed. Despite being injured, she had wanted to continue sleeping on the sofa, stating that his injuries were worse than hers. If she were anyone else, he wouldn’t have bothered making sure she was comfortable. But she was a friend, and even though he didn’t apologise, it didn’t mean that he didn’t feel bad about what had happened. And contrary to popular belief, he was not exactly a heartless arse. He knew it was wrong to be comfortable on someone else’s bed when that person wasn’t feeling well. The cut on her temple wasn’t serious, but he was certain her body would be sore from all the bruising.

He realised to his displeasure that Molly could be just as stubborn as he was if she wanted to be. In the end, after some arguing, with Sherlock threatening to experiment on Toby with household materials, they finally managed to reach a compromise.

And that was why he was lying next to her on the bed now.

With a bolster between them, of course.

He inwardly scoffed at the bulky item Molly had placed on the bed to separate them. It was ridiculous, really. He didn’t move much while sleeping, so why should there be that thing between them? It only served to take up more space on her bed. It wasn’t like he was going to lean over and touch her accidentally in his sleep. If anything, _he_ should be the one concerned about this, given Molly’s feelings for him. Maybe she would try hugging him in her sleep as well. He tried imagining what it would feel like if her body was close to him while sleeping. She would probably fit snugly against him like how she did just now. And she –

His mind yelled at him to shut up and he quickly chased those thoughts away. He was entering into dangerous territory. Maybe the bolster was a good idea after all.

 _Damn Molly Hooper and her hug,_ he thought bitterly.

That was the first time he had been held by someone since he was a child. He usually didn’t like to be physically intimate with people and he rarely portrayed any physical forms affection, which he deemed as unnecessary. In fact, affection of any kind should be avoided if possible. It was akin to sharing a part of himself with someone, and he didn’t like that. The only person he did hug was Mrs Hudson, and those were usually more of a quick grab and pull away, lasting about two seconds.

However, the hug from Molly, with Molly, felt different from what he imagined hugs to be. Granted, he wouldn’t have put his arm around her if she didn’t initiate it, but that wasn’t to say that the experience was _unpleasant._ Her body was soft and the way she had held him was comforting.  

He broke away from his train of thought, appalled at himself for thinking this way. He was Sherlock Holmes, the brilliant detective with the cold, rational mind. Affection was not his area. Frowning, he turned his body to face the wall, so that he wouldn’t have to see Molly sleeping peacefully beside him.

He needed to take down the network as quickly as possible when he recovered, before Molly Hooper evoked feelings from him that he would regret. The shy pathologist was proving to be a very dangerous woman indeed.


	7. Chapter 7

Two months passed rather uneventfully. Sherlock was now fully recovered and was expecting to leave the country soon on his first undercover assignment. The short time spent with him had made Molly much more comfortable and confident in his presence. She rarely stammered around him anymore, and even though he still managed to make her flustered at times, he did it out of playful teasing.

She realised he wasn’t as difficult to live with as she had initially thought. While he would suddenly turn moody and refuse to eat, she had learnt to detect the warning signs and stayed clear of him during those days. She also learnt to negotiate with him, offering him body parts for experiments if he behaved himself. Her kitchen was in a horrible mess, but she figured it was a fair bargain. Rather a chaotic kitchen than no peace at all.

Molly hummed a few bars of a pop song absently while she tidied her desk, ready to go for her lunch break. Just as she was almost done, she heard her lab doors swing open and she poked her head out of her office to investigate. Standing in her lab was her boss, Mike, and the last person she thought she would see again.

“Hello, Molly,” Mike greeted her amicably. “Just wanted to introduce you to the new pathologist from Royal London Hospital.”

Molly couldn’t help the grin that spread across her face, and the new pathologist mirrored her expression.

“Hey Joe,” she stuck out her hand in greeting and he shook it. Mike looked to the two of them in confusion before realising that they had met before. He muttered something about being late for his lunch and excused himself.

“I didn’t know you were a pathologist too!” she exclaimed, once Mike was gone. “What made you leave RLH?”

“I just fancied a new environment,” he smiled happily at her. “Going for lunch then?”

“Yes, do you want to join me? I haven’t thanked you properly for helping me that night.”

His light brown eyes brightened at her offer. “Love to.”

* * *

Sherlock couldn’t stop the corner of his lips from twitching when he saw Mycroft’s face. His brother was staring in disbelief at the person sitting across him. He could almost hear the wheels turning in his brother’s mind as he processed the situation.

Mycroft cleared his throat. “I see you’re alive and well, Miss Adler.”

The Woman smirked. “I would hope so. I don’t quite believe in ghosts, do you?”

“And you trust her, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked him solemnly. He could tell his older brother was apprehensive about the Woman, and he couldn’t really blame him after what had happened.

“No,” he answered truthfully, which drew a scowl from Irene. “But she owes me a favour and she will repay that debt. And she is a skilled blackmailer, just what we need.”

Mycroft pinched the bridge of nose in resignation. He could see the logic behind this decision. Irene, as much as she enjoyed games and manipulation, was not one who loved being indebted to others. Until this debt was paid, she could be trusted to be on their side.

“Fine,” he relented. “But any sign that you are playing on Moran’s side, and I will disclose your identity to certain people, Miss Adler.”

“Understood, Mr Holmes,” she said, her eyes darkening at the threat. “Now, what’s the plan?”

Mycroft took a file from his briefcase, setting it on Molly’s coffee table. “My men have found a few names. Both Sherlock and you will go undercover to see if they are indeed part of Moran’s inner circle. If they are, you two are to report to me at once and let me handle it from there. They are the only way we can discover Moran’s true location.”

“Ok, so where are we going?” Irene asked, looking at Sherlock.

“We are not going together, Woman,” he smirked. “I’ll be going to Scotland. You are going to take a little trip to Eastern Europe. I think my dear brother here would prefer it if you were as far away from Britain as possible.” He saw Mycroft smile slightly. “I hope you love Goulash.”

“Oh, don’t worry Mr Holmes,” she smiled, her fingers tracing patterns along his knuckles. Sherlock suppressed the urge to move his hand away. “I love Goulash. Hungary has its charm.”

Mycroft clicked his tongue impatiently. “I need you two to be careful. These are mostly men of power and prestige, not low-end criminals. Do not do anything stupid.”

Irene sighed dramatically. “I am many things, Mr Holmes. But stupid is not one of them.” Sherlock secretly agreed with her.

“When are we leaving?” he asked his brother.

“Tomorrow.”

* * *

Molly was hoping to relax with a good book and some hot chamomile tea. It had been a while since she had some personal time, seeing how Sherlock would always interrupt her for something. But she was going to put her foot down today. Going through a huge stack of paper work and two autopsies had taken their toll on her. She mentally prepared herself for whatever Sherlock might’ve done to her flat during her absence.

She froze at the doorway when she saw the scene in front of her.

A very well-endowed woman with dark, wavy hair was sitting on her sofa, flipping through the channels on the telly with a bored expression.

And she was utterly nude.

Molly clapped her hands to her mouth to stifle a scream. The woman looked up at her with amusement dancing in her blue eyes. She stood up gracefully and sauntered over, completely unperturbed by the fact that she wasn’t wearing anything.

“You must be Molly Hooper. My my, look at that precious face,” the woman purred seductively, running her slim fingers across Molly’s cheeks. “So innocent. The things I would do to you. You’re a screamer, I can -”

Her sentence was cut short by Sherlock, who came out the bedroom looking extremely annoyed. Molly’s eyes widened when she saw that he had cut his thick curls away and had dyed his hair a light brown. She secretly mourned the passing of his trademark curly hair. But she conceded that he still looked rather dashing.

“I would appreciate it if you stayed away from her, Woman,” he said.

“Oh dear. Jealous now, are we?” the woman teased. She was still standing very close to Molly, who was finding it a bit difficult to formulate any coherent thought.

“Excuse me, but who are you?” Molly finally managed to ask.

“Irene Adler, love. I’m Sherlock’s old friend, here to help him with the network.” She leaned in to press a soft kiss near the side of Molly’s lips, making her blush.

“Irene Adler?” The name sounded vaguely familiar to Molly. Then, it hit her. “You were dead on my slab about half a year ago!”

“Good memory. But I’m not dead, as you can clearly see,” Irene winked at her. “Pulled the same prank your handsome boyfriend here did.”

Molly was too stunned to correct her. Did people here even die anymore? And wasn’t Sherlock supposed to be Irene’s boyfriend? She surmised as much after he had identified her body from not her face, which had been badly bashed up at the time.

“And don’t mind my nudity,” Irene whispered into her ear, her hot breath making the pathologist shiver slightly. “I just hate wearing clothes at night, don’t you?”

Sherlock came forward and yanked Molly away from Irene, his eyes smouldering with anger. “That’s enough,” he said warningly.

Irene pouted at the angry look on Sherlock’s face. “Oh Mr Holmes, you should really try to be a little friendlier. Might do you some good.”

Sherlock was just about to retort when Molly cut in. She needed to know what the hell was going on before she continued looking the fool. “Irene, I understand you’re helping Sherlock, but what are you doing in my house?”

“Well, Mr Holmes and I have to leave for our assignments tomorrow, so I’m just staying the night. Hope you don’t mind, darling. I have nowhere else to go. I’m not from London, you see.”

“Staying the night?”

“Yes. Didn’t Sherlock tell you?”

“No,” she replied, turning to frown at the man beside her, who merely shrugged. “But where are you going to sleep?”

Irene smiled mischievously before moving closer to Molly again. “I can share the bed with you. It’ll just be us girls! Mr Holmes can continue sleeping on the sofa,” she waved her hands dismissively in Sherlock’s direction.

“No,” he snarled loudly, startling the two women. “You will not share a bed with Molly.”

“Oh, I see,” Irene cocked her head as she studied the detective. “ _You_ want to share the bed with this precious thing instead.”

“Jealous now, are we?” Sherlock mimicked.

“Not at all,” Irene whispered, stepping closer to the detective and playing with the sleeves of his pyjama top. “I think she’ll prefer me. At least I know what she likes, which is more than I can say for you.”

Molly’s face turned crimson at Irene’s words, which fortunately went undetected by the other two, who were now engaged in a staring contest. Sherlock shot Irene a death glare, but the woman refused to back down, steadily gazing at him with a lively gleam in her eyes.

Molly found that despite Irene’s endless sexual innuendos, she didn’t actually have any qualms about her staying for the night. It was just one night after all, and she was going to be helping Sherlock. Plus, Molly felt bad to reject her since she was already settled comfortably here. Very comfortably, in fact.

“Erm,” she said, wanting to diffuse the tension in the room. “I don’t actually mind Irene sharing my bed for a night.”

“Don’t be absurd, Molly,” Sherlock snapped. “She’ll do things to you that you will regret. I’ll share the bed with you instead.”

“What?” she squeaked. This was getting out of control. She had no idea why Sherlock was so antagonistic towards this woman who was going to help him. She seemed alright to her, maybe just a little too bold and playful. But it certainly wasn’t enough for Sherlock to be staring at her with disdain. Something must have happened between them, and Molly wasn’t sure if she wanted to find out.  

“What’s wrong?” he asked Molly, frowning at her shocked expression. “It’s not like we haven’t slept together before.”

Molly choked. Irene looked at both of them with interest when she heard this, her bright eyes darting between the two. Molly could practically _hear_ what she was thinking and couldn’t stop the blood from flowing to her cheeks again. She wondered if Sherlock even realised the sexual nature of his words. Probably not.

“It’s not what you think,” she muttered, embarrassed.

“Oh, isn’t it?” Irene smirked.

Before Molly could reply, Sherlock pulled her into the bedroom and shut the door.


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock didn’t know why he was so worked up, but the sight of the Woman standing so close to Molly had irked him. He didn’t like that she had been so intimate with the ( _his_ ) pathologist, running her fingers along her face and whispering in her ear. The mere thought of the Woman’s lips brushing against Molly’s cheek made his skin crawl. But he couldn’t understand why it had irritated him so.

“Are you alright?” Molly asked softly, looking up from the book she was reading. Something dull called _The Name of the Wind._

“Of course I’m alright. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Well…you’ve been pacing around the room for the last half hour.”

“I need to think. Pacing helps.”

“Oh, about Scotland?”

“Mmm,” he hummed in agreement. It was a lie, but she didn’t need to know that.

“Maybe you should get some sleep, Sherlock. There’s no use thinking so much about it now, and you need to leave early tomorrow,” she said, stifling a yawn.

“Not sleepy.”

“Sherlock -”

“I said, I’m not sleepy,” he glowered at her, wanting to be left alone. Molly opened her mouth to say something but thought better of it. She placed her book by the nightstand and turned off her bedside lamp, snuggling under the duvet. Sherlock was glad to see that the damn bolster was not present tonight to take up more space (the Woman had claimed it for her own). Given his frustration, he might’ve been tempted to fling the bulky thing somewhere if it were beside him.

“Goodnight then,” Molly muttered, falling asleep within minutes. He continued pacing around the room hotly after she slept. After what seemed like eons, he finally gave up. Molly was probably right – he needed the rest. His faculties needed to be working well tomorrow.

He lay down on his side of the bed and turned to study her sleeping form. He was fascinated by it, although he wasn’t sure why. Molly didn’t sleep like how he expected most females to. She was the opposite of graceful. Her limbs were spread out and she was lying on her stomach. The bottom of her shirt was scrunched up, revealing the pale flesh of her abdomen. He stared at her exposed skin, but soon felt like there was something intimate about the scene and quickly turned away. This was Molly at her most vulnerable, her guard completely let down while sleeping. She didn’t invite him to look, so he shouldn’t.

It suddenly dawned on him that he had grown increasingly protective of her. She had made his life more bearable during the last two months, doing experiments with him and listening to him talk. Most people grimaced when he was around. But Molly actually flashed him a genuine smile whenever she saw him, as if she was truly happy to see him.

With a start, he realised he found her company enjoyable too. Once she’d gotten over her excessive nervousness around him, she was quite a pleasant person to be around with. Her jokes, while morbid, secretly amused him. And she was surprisingly well-read, even if she couldn’t always convey what she wanted to say properly. But the best thing was knowing that he wouldn’t be judged when he was with her. And it was liberating, not always needing to be the great detective in the funny hat. 

He turned back to look at her and frowned. Her hair was now in a mess, covering part of her face. He reached out a hand and brushed a few strands away from her face, instinctively cataloguing the texture it in his mind palace. His lips curled in disgust when he realised what he had done. Did he just touch Molly Hooper’s hair? And did he actually enjoy that?

Being cooped up in her flat for so long was obviously making him insane. Thank god he was leaving tomorrow. His brain definitely needed the work.

* * *

It was still dark when Molly awoke the next day to find the side of her bed empty. She reached her hand out to touch the sheets and with a sigh of relief, found that it was still warm from Sherlock’s body.  He must have just gotten up then. She rubbed her eyes tiredly and hurried out of bed, not wanting to miss him.

Sherlock stepped out of the bathroom with just his trousers on, his hair still a wet mess. Despite the fact that she’d seen him shirtless a few times over the two months, she still hadn’t gotten used to it. His muscles, though lean, were very well-defined. She saw him smirk slightly when he caught her staring and wondered if he did this on purpose to torment her.

“Have you eaten?” she spoke softly, not wanting to disturb Irene, who was still asleep on the couch – her flight was only in the afternoon.

Sherlock shook his head as he slipped an ordinary t-shirt over his shoulders. He wasn’t going to be able to wear his usual impeccable suits anymore. “Not hungry.”

“Come on, you have to eat something. I’ll make you some toast,” she said, going into the kitchen. Sherlock followed behind her, grumbling away as she made him breakfast. Molly watched him as he ate, already missing him before he even left. With his wavy light brown hair and casual clothes, he looked nothing like the Sherlock Holmes she knew.

“Will your disguise work?” she asked him worriedly.

“Molly, people only see what they want to see. As far as the world is concerned, I am dead, so no one is expecting to see Sherlock Holmes. All they will see is Ryan Cumberbatch.” He wrinkled his nose in disgust when he mentioned his fake surname, eliciting a giggle from her.

“What?” he demanded. “It is the most ridiculous name. I’m sure Mycroft deliberately chose it to annoy me.”

“And this is coming from a man whose name is Sherlock,” she said seriously.

He frowned at her for a while before his face relaxed into a smile. “My mother is not particularly gifted when it comes to naming. She once named a dog Trixibelleas.”

“What?!”

“I think it’s fortunate that Mycroft and I ended up with the names we have. It might’ve been a lot worse,” he drew out the last word, his eyes widening playfully.

Molly chuckled and he smirked back. It was moments like this that reminded her of how they were actually proper friends now.

He finished his breakfast quickly and went to put on his shoes, muttering a goodbye to her before promptly turning to leave. But Molly held onto his arm. He arched his eyebrows in her direction.

She smiled shyly before tiptoeing and pressing a kiss to his cheek, not caring whether he minded or not. She was not going to see him for the next few months, and she was terrified that something might happen to him, in spite of how brilliant he was. Her lips lingered a while on his skin before she pulled away, her cheeks flushed and mentally preparing herself to be chided by him. But he proved her wrong.

He hesitated for a while before pulling her in for a hug. She had to remind herself to breathe as his arms tightened around her. There was something odd in his eyes when he pulled away, but Molly couldn’t quite place it.

“So erm…goodbye,” she whispered. He nodded before closing the door behind him. She went over to the window and watched him as he got into a cab, wiping a bit of moisture away from the corner of her eyes. She was just about to return to bed when she caught a wide-awake Irene staring at her.

“You love him,” Irene stated succinctly.  

“Well…erm…I…” she stammered.

“Yeah, he has that effect on people.”

“You love him too.” The words came out easily; she had suspected it when she saw Irene yesterday.

“I did, but not anymore. I know where I stand with him.”

“What happened between the two of you?” Molly asked, sitting beside Irene. “He told me you are a dominatrix?”

“Was,” Irene corrected. “Dying changed everything.” She sighed before continuing, a wistful look in her eyes. “Well, the summary is that we met, I drugged him, betrayed him, and then he saved me from getting beheaded.”

“Beheaded?!”

“Yes, it’s a pretty common way to be executed in Karachi apparently. I got caught up with some terrorists.”

“If he saved you, it means he cares a lot about you.”

Irene scoffed. “He admires me, that’s all. He respects my intelligence. But he can never really love someone like me. In fact, it’s been a long time since someone did.”

“Don’t say that,” Molly frowned. “Surely someone loves you.”

“Look at me, Doctor Hooper. I live a life of games and manipulation, disguises and many identities. Who can know me well enough to love me? Not that I’m complaining of course,” she smirked. “I do enjoy the adrenaline and the puzzles.”

“You sound like Sherlock.”

“Mmm,” she agreed. “And that is why he admires me but can’t love me.”

Molly frowned.

“We are two sides of the same coin,” Irene explained. “He’ll get bored of me sooner or later. He’ll figure me out because he sees enough of himself in me. In fact, he did figure me out once. Not a very pleasant experience, as I recall,” she smiled tightly. “You on the other hand, are quite different from him. I’d say you just might stir something unexpected in him.”

Molly shook her head. “We’re just friends.”

“Don’t give up so soon! He’s certainly very possessive of you,” Irene laughed, thinking about last night. “And he’s only like that when it concerns the people he likes.”

Molly didn’t know what to say to that. At this point, she was sure that he was fond of her platonically. But romantically? That seemed surreal and impossible. She had taught herself since that Christmas debacle to stop hoping.

“How long?” Irene asked her softly.

“Two years.”

“Good lord, darling,” she stared at her. “Mr Holmes is never going to find another woman who loves him this long while he’s busy being the number one arse in England. Although he is a very sexy one,” she grinned.

Molly looked away. It wasn’t like she chose this. She couldn’t stop herself from falling in love with Sherlock. And she was the type whose heart never returned once it belonged to someone else.

Irene noticed the dejected look on her face and tilted her chin, turning Molly to face her. “Let’s have some breakfast, shall we? I don’t fancy talking about sad things in the morning.”

“Ok,” she agreed. “Irene?”

“Hmm?”

“If you need a place to stay when you come back from the assignments, you can crash here if you like. I know the sofa’s not that comfortable, but if you can’t find someplace else…” She had no idea why she was offering this. But she thought she saw a flicker of loneliness beneath the gleam of Irene’s eyes.

“Mr Holmes will have a fit, don’t you think?”

Molly sniffed. “It’s my house.”

“You’re a good person, Molly Hooper,” Irene said, causing Molly to blush. And then, she leaned in and gave her a kiss.

Right on the lips.

Molly squeaked and moved backwards in shock, causing Irene to laugh. “Don’t be so afraid! It’s just how I express myself! I mean it no other way,” she said, raising her arms in surrender.

Molly stood up, her face burning for the umpteenth time. Irene’s antics certainly needed some getting used to. She cleared her throat. “How do pancakes sound?”

“Absolutely lovely. I’ll help.”


	9. Chapter 9

As usual, Molly reached the restaurant earlier than John did. She chose a table near the window and proceeded to look around the place absently, observing the people around her. She found herself instinctively trying to deduce random facts about the strangers. It would seem that all the time spent with Sherlock was rubbing off on her.

She turned towards the window and saw the army doctor getting off a cab. He spotted her by the window and gave her an amicable wave. He was wearing his favourite oatmeal jumper and dark trousers, and although he still looked rather skinny – having lost a lot of weight since the fall – he also looked a lot better rested. His limp had improved and his eyes no longer held the lifeless look they once had. He was starting to heal, one step at a time.

John smiled at her as he entered the restaurant, and for the first time in months, the corner of his brown eyes crinkled and he actually looked happy.

“Hey Molls!” He bent down to give her a quick peck on the cheek and she returned the gesture. “So, how are you?”

“I’m fine. You?”

“I’m alright. Feeling a lot better lately.”

Molly inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. She was glad that John finally seemed to be moving on with his life. He had worried her immensely during the first few months. They soon settled into the familiar rhythm of conversing about their work lives. Ever since the funeral four months ago, both of them had made it a point to meet every week for a meal. It helped John in his healing process as he was able to openly talk about Sherlock with someone who could understand. Molly never imagined that John Watson would ever be a good friend of hers one day, but the fall had changed everything. He was now in short, like the brother she never had.

She listened attentively as he went on about one of his funny patients at the clinic (he had thankfully returned to work), waiting for the waiter to return with their meals. John hadn’t even bothered to skim through the menu, preferring to go with whatever dish Molly chose. She wasn’t surprised – he had lost his interest in food after Sherlock’s death. As he talked to her with more enthusiasm than she ever anticipated, Molly deduced that he was keeping something from her, something that he was excited about. She was curious, but decided to be patient.

Their food arrived in a matter of minutes and they tucked in silently. She saw John playing about with the food on his plate before cutting a small part of his baked fish off. He closed his eyes when the meat made contact with his taste buds.

“Oh hell,” he murmured.

“What?”

“I’ve not eaten anything this tasty in a long time. Great choice!”

Molly’s eyes softened at his cheerful face. She was glad that he was finally starting to appreciate food again. He always had a healthy appetite, so it had been particularly worrying when he labelled everything he ate as “dull” and “unappetising” during the first three months of their meetings. Their conversation soon steered to random things, and John laughed, an actual hearty laugh, when Molly recounted the story of Toby falling into the loo last night in an attempt to escape from a bath.

They had just started to drink their coffees when John set his cup down on the saucer, staring at her seriously. “Listen, Molls…” he began, only to trail off and look uncomfortable, shifting in his seat.

“It’s ok,” she said. “You can just tell me.”

He looked at her in surprise, wondering how she knew that something was up. He inhaled deeply and played with his fingers before opening his mouth again. “I…I received an offer from a hospital, and I’m thinking of accepting it.”

Molly felt the beginnings of something heavy settling at the pit of her stomach. “Where is the hospital?”

“Australia,” he said softly, not meeting her eyes. “I applied last month.”

She was stunned into silence for a while. Australia. Thousands of kilometres away. Different time zones. No more meeting for meals and talking with him. She felt a lump in her throat and hastily swallowed hard. John was counting on her to support him, and she would do just that. He needed it.

“I’m happy for you, John,” she smiled, struggling to keep the sadness out of her voice. “When are you leaving?”

“In two months’,” he looked away from her again. “I’m sorry I’m not sticking around.”

“No,” she said firmly. “You have every right to go. Don’t think this way. Just remember to send me some postcards.”

“Postcards?” He wrinkled his nose. “Wouldn’t it be better if I just emailed?”

“I like postcards. I actually collect them whenever I have the chance to travel.”

John remained silent. She could tell that he still felt bad about leaving her, but he also really wanted to go.

“Maybe you can get me a kangaroo to make up for this,” she said, trying to lighten the mood. She was terrible at telling jokes, but she reckoned that anything was better than silence now.

John’s lips twitched ever so slightly. “Perhaps I could get you a wombat. Your flat’s too small for a kangaroo I think, and poor Toby will get a heart attack.”

“I would ask you to get me one if customs actually allowed it through,” she fixed him with the best serious expression she could muster, drawing a soft chuckle from him. He sighed and looked out of the window.

“Molly?”

“Hmm?”

“I think I’m ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“To go back to 221B.”

“That’s great, John,” she smiled, reaching over to clasp his hand.

“Will you go back with me?”

“Of course.”

* * *

The flat was slightly dusty and had a musky smell. But other than that, it seemed to be exactly how Molly remembered it to be when she came over for Christmas last year. The skull, which Sherlock had named Billy, was still sitting proudly atop the mantelpiece. His violin was carelessly lying on his armchair, and his science equipment littered the kitchen.

Mrs Hudson still could not bear to clear his things away or rent the flat out. Molly wondered if Mycroft had made an excuse and was actually paying the rent, keeping the flat vacant until Sherlock was ready to return. She wouldn’t be surprised if he did – no one would question Mycroft Holmes anyway.

John stood in the centre of the living room, his eyes slowly travelling around the house, lingering on certain spots longer than others. She saw him smile sadly when he looked at some of Sherlock’s old things. His eyes moved towards the wall and suddenly, he laughed.

“What?” she asked, completely bewildered.

“Did you know that Sherlock actually shot the wall once?”

“My god, really?”

“Yeah. He said he was bored,” John chuckled. “What a git.” He paused. “I miss him so much, Molly. If he were here, I’d let him shoot all the walls he wanted to.”

He walked over to the fireplace and picked up the skull, cradling it carefully in his hands. “Going to Australia, it’s like a chance at a new life, Molls. And I really need it now. But I’m going to miss you so much too,” he said, turning to look at her with so much sadness in his eyes that her chest tightened. Molly went over to him and he drew her into a hug, breaking her composure. Tears started sliding down her cheeks.

“Don’t be a stranger,” she choked.

“Never,” he pulled away and smiled at her with glassy eyes. “We should stop this. If Sherlock were here, he’d call us idiots and proceed to kick us out for being so soppy!”

Molly giggled at that thought. That was exactly what he would do. A knock sounded on the door and Mrs Hudson came in. She was also looking better now, although her eyes still strayed away from Sherlock’s belongings.

“Would you like some tea, loves? I would bring the tray up here, but it’s just so stuffy!” She smiled at them affectionately as Molly went over and hugged her. John agreed immediately, not wanting to remain any longer in the flat.

As the three of them descended down the stairs towards Mrs Hudson’s flat, Molly realised that this was the first time she felt as if she truly had a family since her father’s death.

Her heart sank when she realised that others had to lose something just for her to gain that.  


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock was standing by the window, absently plucking his violin strings as he stared out into the dark sky overhead. Flakes of snow were falling unendingly to the concrete ground below, gradually melding into a blanket of white. A wrong note issued from his violin and he grimaced – it’d been a while since he played.

He was fortunate that Molly had the sense to retrieve his instrument from Baker Street when she went there two months ago. She’d claimed that she wanted to keep it as a memento, and John had allowed her to. Of course he did. He still couldn’t handle being in close proximity to any of his items for long periods of time. That was why he was in Australia now, having a sunny Christmas instead of a snowy one. Everything had been so different a year ago, and as much as he tried to, Sherlock couldn’t stop the dull ache pulsing in his chest.

He sighed inwardly as he fingered another chord. He couldn’t play it properly with his bow since Molly’s neighbours would notice, but he figured that pizzicatos were better than nothing. At least it had kept him occupied for the past week he’d been back from Scotland.

The trip had yielded only average results. While he had managed to obtain some vital information to build up a few key profiles, they were still nowhere close to finding Moran, which was frankly the only person he cared about taking down. The Woman hadn’t made much progress either. The only comforting thing was that she had decided to remain in Budapest for Christmas.

Molly’s cheerful voice from the kitchen forced his fingers to stop.

“What?” he snapped, irritated at the interruption.

“Would you come here please?”

He entertained the thought of saying no, but he didn’t really want to deal with an upset Molly on Christmas. It would probably make him feel worse. Sherlock placed his violin down reluctantly and went over to the kitchen, breathing in a trail of something sweet.

He quirked an eyebrow questioningly, noticing the flushed excitement on Molly’s face. She was wearing a green Christmas jumper patterned with reindeers, the sort of thing he absolutely detested.

“The puddings are done,” she said happily.

“The what?”

“Puddings, Sherlock!”

“Oh.”

“Come on, I made you one,” she said, beckoning him closer to her. With a slight roll of his eyes, he went forward, taking the plate from her. He had to admit that it did smell rather nice.

They started to eat, Molly happily chatting to him about random things that he wasn’t really paying attention to. He could see that she was livelier than usual. He deduced early on that she used to spend her Christmases with her father, who passed away five years ago. She didn’t have any close friends or family members (she wasn’t close to her mother – they were similar in that aspect), so her holidays were usually spent alone.

His teeth suddenly made contact with something hard. His brows creased and he removed the object from his mouth.

“What’s this?” he asked her, holding out a round penny.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you that I buried some pennies in the puddings,” she said, looking a bit sheepish.

“I can see it’s a penny Molly, but what’s it doing in my food?”

She frowned before realising that he was completely clueless. “Sherlock,” she giggled. “It’s a Christmas tradition. People usually put little tokens in puddings!”

Well, this was new information. He must have deleted it from his memory long ago, since anything to do with Christmas annoyed him, especially those cliché Christmas movies with predictable plots he could deduce within seconds.

“What’s it supposed to mean?” He took a large bite of his pudding (which tasted rather good), turning the penny in his fingers.

“It’s for good luck. I thought you’d need it.”

“You do know that it never works, right?”

“Of course I do!” she said, looking mildly affronted that he thought this way. “I just thought it’d be fun.”

She looked away, and he knew that she was second-guessing herself, wondering if she had acted foolishly. He wasn’t sure if it was because of the sweetness in his mouth, but he didn’t want her to think this way. The thing was, he did appreciate this gesture. Silly as it was, it was undeniably Molly. It seemed like something Mrs Hudson would do as well. The memory of her forcing him to eat some disgusting gingersnap cookies last Christmas came flooding back and his lips twitched slightly. He was just about to say something when a loud knock sounded from the doorway.

“MOLLY!” An extremely shrill voice called. Molly’s spoon cluttered against her plate and her face went a shade paler.

“Oh god!” she cried, getting up from her chair and looking around with panic.

“What?” He was thoroughly perplexed by the turn of events. The woman’s annoying voice drifted from the corridor again and Molly grabbed his shoulders, forcing him to stand up.

“It’s my mother!” she hissed. “Shit! What is she doing here?! How am I going to explain you?!” She was on the verge of tears. He would’ve laughed at her silly expression if he wasn’t secretly panicking as well.

The woman rapped on the door again and Sherlock suppressed an urge to snap at her. He forced himself to focus and only one viable option came to mind. It was ridiculous, but it was going to be the only way he could stay without being discovered. From the tone of her voice, he doubted that Molly’s mother was intelligent.

The plan would work just fine.

* * *

“Hi mum!” Molly said with more enthusiasm than she felt. Her mother never came over for Christmas unless something happened with her husband, whomever it was at the time. She was probably going through her third divorce or something. “What’re you doing here?”

“Hello,” her mother smiled, giving her a kiss on the cheek. “I came to spend Christmas with my darling daughter of course! Something smells good!”

“Mmm. I made pudding.”

“Would you like some, ma’am?” Sherlock’s voice drifted from the kitchen entrance. Molly drew in a breath and steadied her shaking hands before turning to look. She was shocked at the transformation.

Sherlock wasn’t recognisable at all. Sure, his features were all still the same. But instead of his usual brooding face, his expression was now gentle and sweet.

“Hullo,” her mum smiled, her eyes flickering to Molly. “And who might this handsome young man be?”

“Mum, this is Ryan. He’s my er…boyfriend.” _Oh my god, I just called Sherlock my boyfriend!_

“Hello Mrs Lawrence,” Sherlock said politely, shaking her mother’s hand. Her mum gave Sherlock the once-over and seemed satisfied with what she saw; she was completely unaware of whom she was actually staring at.

“Call me Elizabeth, please. Mrs Lawrence makes me feel old.” She turned to Molly. “I didn’t know you had a boyfriend!” her mother whispered loudly, obviously intending for Sherlock to hear.

Molly gave a nervous laugh and Sherlock shot her a look. “We just met a few months ago, mum. His family is away, so we’re spending Christmas together.”

“Oh, how _SWEET_!” Molly saw Sherlock discreetly roll his eyes and she chewed on her lips to stop herself from smiling.

“Shall we go for a walk, sweetheart? You know how much I missed London!” Her mother tugged at her arm. Her mum didn’t like being in her flat for very long – the mess always put her off. And she couldn’t stand being in a house so small, coming from her large Upper East Side flat in New York.

“But it’s late, mum.”

“Molly Elizabeth Hooper, are you really going to refuse your own mother a walk on Christmas?”

“Erm…ok then,” she agreed reluctantly.

“Do you want to come along too, Ryan?” Her mother asked, her voice dripping with sweetness.

“No thank you, Elizabeth. I’m not that fond of the winter air,” Sherlock said.

“Ah…alright then. I’ll just take my Molly with me.” But her mother didn’t budge.

The three of them stood there awkwardly for a moment, not quite knowing what to do.

“Well, aren’t you going to kiss him goodbye?” Her mother clicked her tongue at her. “You two are a couple! Be more affectionate! I don’t want you losing another boyfriend, you’re not young anymore!”

Molly felt her face burning at her mother’s words. She swallowed hard and faced Sherlock. His face still sported a sweet expression, but she could see his eyes hardening. She silently begged him with her eyes, hoping that he would follow through with the act.

Sherlock bent down and swiftly captured her lips, giving her a chaste kiss. It was exceedingly normal, but Molly’s heart was thumping so heavily, she thought he would be able to hear it.

“Bye Molly,” he smiled, still scarily in character. He should’ve become an actor.

* * *

_Soft, sweet, warm._

_They tasted just like the puddings she’d made._

Sherlock’s eyes widened when he realised where his thoughts had strayed to. He picked up his violin quickly, forcing his mind to retreat into the safety of his mind palace with the aid of his music.

He steadily ignored that one room that would open to patterned cardigans, a pleasant vanilla scent and lab equipment.

* * *

Molly returned mentally exhausted. Her mother had complained incessantly about her husband wanting to divorce her because of the “one tiny affair” she had. She couldn’t understand why her mum wouldn’t admit that it was her fault, but decided to remain silent on the subject. It wasn’t like her mother was going to listen to her.

She was also trying not to think about the fact that she had somehow agreed to go for dinner with her mother in two days.

With her “boyfriend”.

“How was it?” Sherlock asked. He was sprawled across her couch, watching the telly and looking utterly bored.

“I don’t want to talk about it. She makes me tired.”

He huffed out a breath of laughter. “Of course she does. She’s an idiot with a level of intelligence that is lower than Anderson’s.”

“Sherlock!”

“What? You obviously agree.”

“We don’t really get along, but she’s my mother. Don’t say things like that.”

“Not good?”

“No.”

He hesitated. “Point taken.” That was as good as an apology coming from him.

She sat down beside him, swatting his long legs away. She wondered how she was going to go about getting Sherlock to agree to come to dinner with her. He’d probably want to kill her.

She started worrying her bottom lip – an old habit of hers whenever she was nervous.

“If you chew your lips any longer, they will bleed,” he commented.

She started, unaware that he was observing her.

“Just ask,” he drawled in his bored voice. “You obviously want something from me.”

“How did you know?” she squeaked.

“Do you really want me to go into the details? I can start deducing you right now, but I was under the impression that you dislike it when I do that.”

“Yes I do, don’t start,” she said, her cheeks starting to get hot. “Erm…my mum, she wants to meet me for dinner in two days. And she er…she really wants to see you again too, so –“

“You want me to pretend to be your boyfriend again and come to dinner with you,” he finished for her.

“Well…yes,” she answered sheepishly. “Would you?”

“No.”

“Please?”

“I don’t like your mother Molly, and I have no wish to interact with her again.”

“Come on, Sherlock,” she pleaded. “I’ll never hear the end of it if I don’t bring you along!”

“No.”

“It’ll just be a couple of hours! And dinner will be more bearable if you were there!” She could see his resolve wavering a bit. “Please?” she tried again. “Just two hours.”

“Fine,” he grumbled, looking like a sulky child. “But I’m not sitting beside her.”

“I think I can deal with that,” Molly giggled. “Thank you.”

He waved his hands dismissively, and she looked at him fondly. It suddenly occurred to her that it was close to midnight – Christmas day was almost over.  

She hastily went into her room and removed a small, wrapped box from her wardrobe. She had gotten it while he was away. She went back out and handed it to Sherlock with a shy smile.

“Merry Christmas.”

He frowned and sat up, swinging his long legs in front of him. He took the present from her and opened it promptly. A small bumble bee preserved in a rich honey-gold substance sat in the middle of the box. “How did you know I like bees?”

“You told me once, when we were in the lab.” She could tell that he had forgotten about it. But then again, he rarely paid attention to their conversations.

He was silent for a long while, and she thought she’d done something wrong. Maybe he thought that her present was stupid, since there was no practical value to it. She was just about to open her mouth when he suddenly stood up and walked over to her.

He lowered his head, and she thought that he was going to kiss her cheek again, like he did last Christmas. Instead, he went for her forehead, pressing his lips lightly to her skin. She had to remind herself to breathe at his touch.

“I didn’t get you any present,” he confessed.

“It’s fine.”

“It is?”

“Yeah, you spending Christmas with me is a good enough present.”

Her words seemed to have momentarily stunned him, like he couldn’t understand why she would find his company pleasant. He stood there gazing at her, her present still in his hands.

“Thank you, Molly,” he finally said.

* * *

Hours later, as he lay on the lumpy sofa with his fingers steepled under his chin, Sherlock found himself committing an image of the preserved bumble bee in the room he had determinedly ignored just hours ago.

He placed the bee right beside the image of a smiling Molly in her green Christmas jumper.

When he walked out of her room, he didn’t bother closing the door.  


	11. Chapter 11

Molly was in a state of panic. It wasn’t often the pathologist gave a second thought about her dressing – she normally wore whatever felt comfortable. Given how her “patients” were all deceased, nobody was going to take notice of her in the morgue. And strutting around in heels or wearing a dress seemed wildly ridiculous when one was going to be slicing up cadavers and handling harmful chemicals all day.

But meeting her mother for dinner was different. Her mother’s dress sense was the epitome of sophistication. Richly coloured coats, branded blouses and skirts, specially tailored dresses – she exuded perfect elegance and class. Next to her, Molly felt like all her clothes came out of a charity shop (well, some did). She didn’t want to look frumpy beside her fashionable mother, and yet, she couldn’t find it in herself to feel comfortable when she was wearing clothes that were considered stylish.

She sighed as she dug through her wardrobe, flinging random pieces of work clothes onto her bed. Those wouldn’t do. Her mother would have a field day criticising them if she wore those. She inwardly shuddered at the thought of her mother seeing her favourite cherry-patterned cardigan. She would probably advise her to burn it, and burn it immediately. Molly tried on a few skirts and dresses, but nothing felt _enough_.

“Molly?” Sherlock rapped on her door. He was already dressed in his usual suit, looking quite like his normal self except for his light hair. He was pretty certain that her mother had no suspicion that he was Sherlock Holmes, and he wasn’t going to miss a chance to wear his suit again.

“Molly, hurry up! I’m bored.” He knocked again, more impatiently this time.

“I’ll be out in a moment!” she replied, desperately looking into her wardrobe once more, and feeling like she needed to change all her pathetic clothes.

“That’s what you said an hour ago. Obviously you’re lying.”

“Yes, well, I’m still deciding what to wear.” She could picture him rolling his eyes.

“Wear what you normally wear, it’s just a dinner.”

 _With my mother,_ she thought miserably. _At a posh hotel._

There was silence for a while as she retried a couple of dresses. Not working. She was just about to give up and grab one of her work skirts when Sherlock’s voice drifted from the door.

“Wear that black dress you wore for Christmas last year.”

Molly stilled. The dress was still in the back of her wardrobe, steadily being ignored. She liked it, but after last Christmas, it only held embarrassing memories – memories of her trying to get Sherlock to notice her, even when she knew that he wasn’t interested, and probably never would be. She did consider wearing it for dinner, but she just couldn’t bear the thought of wearing that dress with Sherlock beside her. It was humiliating.

“Molly, if you’re not coming out soon, I’m going to pick your lock,” he warned.

She removed the black dress from her wardrobe and stared at it for a while. It was elegant, not too revealing and proper for a Christmas dinner with a mother she’d not seen for a few years. Seeing how she had no other options, this would have to do.

“Give me fifteen minutes!” she called. She heard Sherlock muttering something unintelligible as he walked away.

Molly slipped on her dress quickly and applied some make-up. She took one last look in the mirror and was satisfied with what she saw. She was no model, but at least it was better than what she had initially intended to wear. Feeling a bit more confident, she stepped into the living room.

Sherlock stopped scratching Toby’s ears and looked up. His eyes flickered to her dress and hair. She chewed her lower lip worriedly. God, how did he still manage to make her nervous even after sharing a flat together? His eyes always seemed to bore right into her, making her feel naked.

“What do you think?” She was afraid of his answer.

“Appropriate for dinner,” he stated matter-of-factly, before ushering her out of the house.

Well, at least he didn’t make a snide remark. She figured it was definitely an improvement.

* * *

Sherlock was bored. It came as no surprise to him, seeing how the woman sitting opposite him was one of the dullest people he had ever met.

She knew nothing about science, gossiped incessantly about her social-climbing friends, and kept questioning him about his life. He detested nosy people like her – they reminded him of one Kitty Riley, the reporter who had cooperated with Moriarty to taint his name.

In short, Molly’s mother was the quintessential idiot, the type he would never cast a second glance towards under normal circumstances. But since there was nothing decidedly normal about acting as someone else’s boyfriend (he’d never done it, even for a case), he had to pay her some false attention.

“Did you know that Molly could never keep a boyfriend for more than a few months?” the mother asked him, cutting into her steak. “How long was your longest relationship again, dear?”

“Six months.” Molly’s face was starting to turn red. From anger or embarrassment, he didn’t know.

“Yes, now I remember,” the mother said. “Blokes tend not to like her morbid sense of humour. And then there’s her job…”

“Pathology is a respectable field, mum,” Molly frowned. “And I enjoy my work.”

“It’s disgusting.” Molly winced and Sherlock gripped the side of his trousers to control himself. He loved pathology. He might’ve gone on to study it if he wasn’t so wasted on drugs after university.

“Why would you want to cut up dead bodies for a living?” the mother continued, oblivious to their discomfort.

“Because it’s interesting when you’ve to determine the cause of death,” Molly explained. “The body is like a puzzle then, a mystery you have to solve.” Sherlock’s lips turned up slightly at her words. “And I like giving others a sense of closure,” she said.

“It’s creepy, Molly,” the mother said, giving her a look of disdain. “Ryan dear, what is it you do?”

“I’m a chemist.” He flashed a false smile he had perfected over the years.

“You see? That’s a more appropriate job. I don’t know how you can stand her job, Ryan.”

Before Sherlock could reply, the mother had switched the topic. “I’ve never seen you wear this dress before, Molly.”

“That’s because I’ve not seen you for four years,” she muttered under her breath.

The mother wrinkled her nose, ignoring her daughter’s comment. “Not very flattering, is it dear? You should’ve picked a dress that improved your cleavage, rather than emphasise on how small it -”

Something in Sherlock snapped then. He didn’t know if it was because of the woman’s overwhelming perfume, or the fact that her words reminded him of similar scene a year ago. Or maybe because Molly’s face had turned ashen. He drew in a breath.

“Pathology is a respectable and difficult field. Very difficult, in fact.” Both women stared at him, surprised by his sudden outburst. A look of understanding crossed Molly’s face and she silently pleaded with him. He ignored her.

“It requires copious amount of brainwork, Mrs Lawrence, since corpses can’t communicate and hence can’t tell you how they died. Although I do understand why you would find it repulsive. You don’t possess the intelligence required to appreciate it, seeing how you can’t even prevent your husband from knowing about your one affair, while he has successfully kept three from you in the last five years that you were married.”

The woman gaped at him, which only motivated him more.

“As for Molly’s past boyfriends, I think the problem lies with them, and not with her. You obviously only visit your daughter when you want to feel better about yourself. Mindless criticism of someone usually points towards low self-esteem. I suggest you make an appointment with your therapist soon; you don’t want your condition worsening. Good day, Mrs Lawrence. Have a _pleasant_ dinner.”

Without a second glance back, he yanked Molly out of the hotel.

* * *

“My mum’s going to kill me,” Molly moaned. “And then she’ll kill you too.”

“No she won’t,” he replied calmly, walking alongside her. “I believe she knows that murder will lead her to prison. Seeing how she cares so much about fashion, I doubt she would want to don an ugly white jacket.”

“Sherlock!”

“Forget her!” He snapped irritably. “She’s an idiot.”

Molly remained silent for a while. “She is, isn’t she?” she finally said, smiling weakly. “And still I try to impress her. I wonder who the real idiot is.”

She looked so dispirited that he felt the need to say something. It was odd, since he wouldn’t have cared in the past. He blamed the bright and cheerful decorations on the shop windows they were walking past. He racked his brain for the appropriate behaviour in such situations, and John’s voice eerily popped into his head.

_“People like compliments. Do it more often if you don’t want to be a tit.”_

He cleared his throat. “Contrary to what your mother said, I don’t think the dress makes your cleavage look small. It actually looks aesthetically pleasing in that dress.”

Molly exhaled sharply and stopped walking. A blush erupted across her cheeks.

He frowned. “Was that not good?” Maybe focusing on her breasts wasn’t the best idea, given his history with insulting them.

“No, it’s…erm…is this…you know, the Sherlock Holmes of way of saying that you like my dress?”

“Yes, I believe so.”

Molly considered his words for a while before smiling shyly. “Thank you.” She leaned in closer and gave him a peck on his cheek. Her lips were warm and they felt pleasant on his cold skin.

For reasons unknown, his eyes travelled to her lips when she pulled away. It was covered in a shade of pink lipstick, which he personally found more pleasing than red. He thought that pink was more reflective of her disposition. His mind flittered back to their kiss two days ago, and his stomach did a flip.  He quickly forced the memory out.

“Where shall we go for dinner?” he asked, wanting to focus on something that had nothing to do with lips or breasts.

“Pardon?”

“We barely ate just now. I’m hungry.”

“You? Hungry?” She looked at him in disbelief.

“Yes, Molly. I’m hungry, although I don’t see why this is so surprising, seeing how I’m a human being and thus, need to eat for sustenance. And I’m not working right now, so food isn’t on my list of things to avoid.”

She hit him lightly on his arm. “Alright, I understand. Don’t have to be an arse about it.” She pondered. “There aren’t many places opened now though.”

“Expected since it’s Christmas. How about Asian?”

“Indian?”

“Fine with me,” he said. “There’s a good restaurant a few blocks away. We can walk, if you’re able to withstand the cold.” She couldn’t tolerate the cold well, and in his haste to pull her away from her mother, he’d caused her to forget her gloves.

Molly smiled. “I’m fine. Lead on.” She moved her hands to hold onto his arm, and he stopped walking, surprised by the suddenness.

“Are you uncomfortable?” she asked softly, removing her hands.

“No, it’s fine.” And weirdly enough, he _meant_ it. No woman had ever held onto his arm like this before, and it felt nice. It wasn’t to dominate him, nor was it a display of aggression. It was just a simple gesture of amiable companionship. He noticed her slight shiver, and in an act that would’ve made him scorn just months ago, he encompassed her hand in his, wrapping his fingers around her cold ones. Her hand was so small, he almost covered it completely.

Her eyes widened and she stared at him. He cleared his throat. “You’re cold. The heat from my hand will keep you warm.”

Her face relaxed into a small smile, and she curled her fingers around his palm. “Thanks.”

They continued walking in comfortable silence, and Sherlock was shocked to discover halfway that what they were doing right now might just constitute as a date.


	12. Chapter 12

Molly sat at a Bart’s canteen table alone, absently pushing pieces of her food around the plate. It was pork-or-pasta day again, and frankly, neither choice was particularly appealing. She wondered if it was because the food was really bland, or that her mind was simply too pre-occupied with other matters.

More specifically, with Sherlock.

It’d been two weeks since he texted her after leaving for Sweden, his last text being _“Almost everyone here has blond hair. Dull.”_ His message had caused her to chuckle, resulting in a series of curious stares from her colleagues, who unfortunately happened to be around her at that time. She was certain that some of her more gossipy co-workers would have spread the rumour that she had a new boyfriend. Many of the hospital staff were rather interested in her love life (or lack thereof) after Jim Moriarty was revealed to be a criminal mastermind. And her all too obvious crush on Sherlock only intensified the rumours after his suicide.  

She sighed inwardly as her mind strayed back to Sherlock once again. She was desperate for some news from him, anything that told her that he was safe. But the man had not bothered to send her any more texts after his observation on the hair colour of the Swedes. Irene on the other hand, was having various conversations with her, ranging from food to attractive people she spotted on the streets of Ukraine (she was travelling to so many countries, Molly could hardly keep track).

She bit back a smile when she realised that Mycroft Holmes would probably be extremely disapproving of their foolish conversations. He’d initially forbidden them to communicate at all, not wanting to run the risk of being intercepted. It was only after much insistence from Sherlock that he’d be terribly bored that Mycroft had relented and allowed for them to communicate via text.

But it was clear that Sherlock wasn’t bored now, seeing how he’d just disappeared again. She knew that he was brilliant and that she should trust him to take care of himself, but seeing how he could forget to eat and sleep while his mind was stimulated, it was difficult not to worry. Molly was just about to give up eating her unappetising lunch when someone at the front of the canteen waved at her.

DI Lestrade and Sergeant Donovan were standing by the entrance, beckoning for her to come over. Molly disposed of her tray and walked up to them, grateful for a distraction. It’d been six months since she last saw Lestrade, given how he was suspended and then bounded to desk-duty after the debacle of the fall. As for Donovan, she’d heard that the sergeant had been suspended for a short while as well. Most of the blame for Sherlock’s supposed crimes still fell on Lestrade’s shoulders though.

“We need to see a body,” Lestrade said, smiling at her. “Thomas Bartley.”

Molly nodded and brought them over to the morgue, wheeling out the cadaver for them. She meticulously recounted everything she’d discovered from her autopsy, and Donovan went away to make a few phone calls. Lestrade stayed behind.

“So, how are you?” he asked, a little too cheerily. Molly knew the reason behind this, but decided not to bring up the subject yet.

“I’m fine, thanks. And you? You look happy to be back.”

“I am! I’ve never been keen on desk jobs. It’s just so boring!”

“I can imagine,” she smiled, knowing how she’d get restless whenever she had to type up autopsy reports. “You got your old position back then?”

“Yeah. I’m still on probation though,” he said, frowning. “Because of…” he trailed off, looking uncomfortable.  There was a lengthy silence, neither wanting to broach the matter that was bothering them.

Lestrade finally opened his mouth. “Listen – I…”

“You didn’t come,” Molly said quietly. Lestrade averted his gaze. “John called you. Thrice,” she added.

“I know. I just…” he broke off mid-sentence and looked away again.

“Couldn’t find the time to come to Sherlock’s funeral,” she finished for him. There was an uncharacteristic sharp edge to her voice. Normally she would apologise for it, but not when the matter concerned people she cared deeply for.

“Molly, you know it was…complicated.”

“What was so complicated, Greg?” He looked to the floor, shifting his weight from one foot to another. “He was your friend, wasn’t he?”

“I couldn’t bring myself to be there,” he whispered, his eyes pleading with her to understand.

“Why? Were you afraid that people might talk?” She was surprised. “I thought you weren’t the type to care about gossip.”

“No, not that. I…I just…” he lowered his eyes, not daring to meet hers.

A rush of realisation hit her, and she fervently hoped she was wrong. “You were having doubts about Sherlock. And it felt wrong for you to be there with thoughts like that.”

Lestrade didn’t even bother to contest her accusation. Her stomach sank and she felt a sudden surge of anger.

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” he shook his head slowly.

“How can you think this way?” She was in complete disbelief. “He worked with you for years. You know he wasn’t a fraud!”

“We can’t really tell now, can’t we?” he shot back. “He’s dead, Molly. He bloody jumped off a building! Only he knows the truth, and he took it with him when he died.”

“He _trusted_ you!”

Lestrade rubbed his face and exhaled a shaky breath. “I’m sorry.”

Molly closed her eyes, attempting to steady her breathing. Sherlock was risking his life regularly by going undercover to keep his friends safe, and yet this man here doubted him.  

“Don’t apologise to me,” she said curtly, turning away. Lestrade opened his mouth, but Donovan appeared then.

She paused at the door, noticing the tension in the room.  “Everything alright?” Her eyes flickered curiously between the two of them.

“Yes,” Lestrade said. “Let’s go.” He ushered Donovan out quickly, looking defeated.

* * *

Molly was still in an irritable mood when Joe found her in the lab hours later. She found that staring at the chemicals always seemed to help calm her down.

“You alright?” he asked, his face full of concern.

“Fine,” she said, attempting to smile but failing miserably.

“That wasn’t a very good lie,” he commented lightly. “C’mon. We’ve been friends for five months now. I’ll allow you to vent some of your frustration on me,” he patted his chest.

She smiled a bit at his silliness before sighing. “I had a disagreement with someone just now.”

“About?”

Molly pondered over telling him. They’d interacted plenty over the past few months, and she considered him a friend. She had been sick of the looks of pity her colleagues would give her after the fall. Poor, sad Molly Hooper. The awkward morgue woman who’d gotten herself mixed up with a pair of insane men. But Joe didn’t look at her like that, and his presence had made coming to work a lot more enjoyable.

“About Sherlock Holmes,” she finally said.

Joe frowned and cocked his head. “The genius detective? The dead one?”

“Yeah.”

“What about him?”

“Do you think he’s a fraud?” Molly asked quietly, afraid of his answer.

Joe shrugged. “Honestly, I have no clue. I didn’t know the man, but I remember reading loads of articles about him solving really difficult cases. Can’t all be fake, can it?”

Molly inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. At least Joe didn’t outright declare Sherlock a fraud, unlike most of the public now. Even seven months after his suicide, the press was still finding reasons to churn out derogatory articles about him. She’d had to turn down requests for interviews from various journalists countless times. Some were even insensitive enough to hound Mrs Hudson by camping outside of 221B. They had only stopped abruptly a month ago, and she suspected Mycroft had something to do with it.  

“Was he your friend?” Joe enquired softly.

“Yes.”

“Was he really as brilliant as people said he was?”

“He is – _was_ ,” Molly corrected herself just in the nick of time, and her heart skipped a beat. She hadn’t made this mistake in a long while. Joe gave her a weird look, and she held her breath.

“Well, if you say he was brilliant, then he most probably was,” Joe said after a pause. “I don’t really like to believe the press anyway,” he waved his hands dismissively in the air. “You know how they love to feed on rumours.”

“Thank you,” Molly said, feeling comforted.

Joe flashed a boyish grin back.

* * *

Molly could hardly contain her excitement as she made her way home after work. John had texted earlier to inform her that he was finally free for a video chat. They hadn’t had one in two months, and she missed him terribly. The last time they’d conversed, he was still settling down and getting used to the different pace of life in Brisbane. It was much slower than that of London’s, but they both agreed that it might be beneficial to him.

She went through her daily rituals of having dinner and showering, before finally settling on her bed with her laptop, Toby curled snugly beside her. He nudged her hand with his nose, and she complied by stroking his head, causing him to purr contentedly. She frowned when she realised that Toby was gaining weight – it must be the result of Sherlock’s odd obsession with feeding him snacks. The supposed cold man actually had a soft spot for her cat, who he’d declared was better company than most humans.

John’s friendly face appeared on her screen a few minutes later, and Molly immediately clapped her hand to her mouth, trying to stifle her giggle.

“Not good?” he asked sheepishly, touching the thing that was responsible for her laughter.

Molly shook her head and cleared her throat. “No, it’s…I think it’s cute. Really cute,” she said, eyeing the prominent moustache which was sitting proudly above John’s lips.

“That’s what Mary said,” he replied, grinning. “I just wanted to try a new look.” Molly raised her eyebrows and John hastily tried to appear indifferent.

“Who’s Mary?” she asked, noticing the blush that was creeping across his cheeks.

“Erm, she’s a woman…”

“Yes, I figured that out from her name,” she bit her bottom lip to stop from smiling.

John closed his eyes for a while, realising that there was no escape. “She…well, I met her at the hospital. She’s a private tutor, and she was bringing her student to the A and E, and I was the doctor in charge. I found out that she’s from London too, and somehow, we ended up meeting for coffee the next day. And then more coffees after.”

“That’s great, John!” She always knew that he was something of a ladies man, since Sherlock would always complain to her about his ever-changing girlfriends. “I guess the coffee meetings are going well then?”

“Quite well,” he said, looking slightly smug.

“What does she look like?”

“Blond, about your height, greyish-blue eyes. Nice smile too,” he added after a short pause.

“You really like her." She didn’t even bother to phrase it as a question. It was obvious that he was enamoured with Mary. A soft look was in his eyes as he was describing her.

“Yeah,” he said, blushing again.

“I’m really happy for you.”

“Thanks,” he grinned. “What about you? Any bloke I should know about?”

Molly shook her head. “Still single as ever. Don’t worry though, I got Toby.” Her chubby cat meowed at the mention of his name and swiped a paw at the screen.

John chuckled at his silly antics. “Brilliant partner he is.”

“The best,” she said with a straight face.

John huffed out a breath of laughter, but his expression quickly turned serious. “Honestly Molls, any man who gets you is one lucky bloke.”

She turned crimson at his words. “It’s true,” John said. “You’re a great person, don’t let any arse tell you otherwise.”

“Thanks,” she said softly. She was just about to ask more about Mary when she heard her front door open, and an all too familiar voice calling her name. Loudly.

John’s eyes widened dramatically before he frowned. “That sounds just like –” Molly didn’t wait for him to finish his sentence. She leapt out of her bed and dashed into the living room, clapping her hand over the mouth of an unsuspecting Irene, who had her back turned to her while she fiddled with her suitcase. Irene let out a muffled cry – it was a rough move on Molly’s part, but needed.

“I’m having a video chat with John,” she whispered.

“Fuck,” Irene muttered against her hand. “Sorry, love.”

Molly placed a finger to her lips before returning to her bedroom. 

“Everything alright?” John asked, after Molly had trusted herself enough to appear in front of him again.

“Yeah.”

“Who was that?”

“My cousin. She’s visiting London and staying over for a few days. She’s very loud,” Molly glared at Irene, who was standing by her bedroom door and trying not to laugh. She was annoyed that she had to lie again.

“Oh…she sounds so much like…never mind. Um, I better go then, don’t want to disturb the two of you,” he smiled. “Talk soon?”

“Next week?”

“Yeah ok. Bye, Molls.”

“Bye,” she said, feeling a little sad. “Tell me more about Mary next time!” John smirked before disappearing from her screen.

Irene settled beside her on the bed, playfully running her fingers up her arm. “I almost thought you were going to release all your pent up sexual frustration and just take me when you covered my mouth. Perhaps you like it rough?”

Molly groaned and rolled over, burying her face in her pillow. “Not now, Irene.” She turned to look at the woman. “I didn’t know you’d be back so soon.”

“I had a breakthrough,” Irene said, unable to keep the glee off her face. She was probably proud that she’d discovered something significant before Sherlock did.

“Really? What did you find?”

Irene frowned. “You know I can’t tell you. It’s not safe for you to know. Mr Holmes would kill me if I told you. And by Mr Holmes, I mean the both of them, although they’d murder me for entirely different reasons of course.”

Molly sighed. She knew that there was truth in Irene’s statement, but it was difficult being so close and yet not knowing anything.

“You’re going to sleep soon?” Irene asked, staring at her pyjamas. Molly nodded. “But it’s only midnight,” Irene said in disbelief.

Molly gave her a look. “I have to work in the morning.”

She pouted a bit, and Molly was reminded of how similar she was to Sherlock sometimes. Two people with brilliant minds who could also turn into sulky children in a matter of seconds.

“Fine then, be boring,” Irene teased, giving her a wicked grin. “Can I sleep beside you tonight? The couch is extremely uncomfortable. I promise to behave myself,” she added, noticing the frown on Molly’s face.   

“Alright,” Molly relented. “Just don’t disturb me, or I’ll kick you off the bed,” she warned.

Irene merely smirked. “I’d like to see you try, Doctor.” She leaned in to kiss her cheek before leaving for the bathroom.

* * *

When Irene returned after taking a shower, Molly was already fast asleep. Her face was peaceful and serene, showing none of the worry Irene knew must be plaguing her during the day.

She lay on the bed as silently as she could, before turning to look at the woman beside her. It was nice, having someone to sleep with. Moving frequently after she had “died” had made her unable to form any lasting relationships with anyone. She didn’t even dare to, since she might have accidentally met someone who wanted her dead. There were days when the loneliness would eat at her, no matter how hard she tried to push it out of her mind.

She brushed a few stray strands of hair away from Molly’s face, a faint smile forming on her lips.

“Thank you,” Irene whispered, even though she knew Molly wouldn’t be able to hear.  


	13. Chapter 13

The first thing Sherlock did after leaving Mycroft’s overly neat house was to hail a cab to Molly’s flat. He was painfully ravenous, but he ignored the uncomfortable twisting of his stomach muscles. He wanted to see her first.

He hadn’t communicated much with her while he was in Sweden, but that didn’t mean that he hadn’t missed her. He was working then, and as always, he’d trained himself to compartmentalise, pushing Molly and any other matters to the back of his mind. But he couldn’t deny the fact that she’d steadily become a constant for him in his new life, and as someone who wasn’t fond of change, he secretly clung onto the stability she offered.

He was also in an ecstatic mood, having uncovered some extremely vital information from the man he’d been assigned to track. Much to his contentment, the man was willing to exchange information after discovering that Sherlock had some paramount leverage. The reality of apprehending Moran didn’t seem so unattainable now, and he was experiencing a rush that paralleled that of when he solved a double homicide. He needed to share this overwhelming energy with someone, and since Mycroft was not a pleasant option (in fact, he wasn’t an option at all), that left him with Molly.

Sherlock entered her house with gusto, loudly calling her name. He frowned when there wasn’t a response. Not accustomed to being ignored, he pushed open her bedroom door impatiently.

She was still fast asleep in her usual graceless fashion, limbs sprawled out and t-shirt scrunched up at her stomach. Somehow, her head had ended up at the side of the bed.

“Molly!” he called again, completely disregarding the fact that she was probably tired and wanted to sleep in on a Saturday.

The pathologist stirred for a moment before groggily opening her eyes. She was right in the middle of giving him a sleepy smile when her eyes snapped open sharply.

“You’re back!” She sat up quickly, blinking a few times to ensure that she was seeing right.

The corner of his lips twitched. Her hair was in an utter mess, brown locks cascading wildly down her shoulders. It was curiously endearing.

“Since I’m standing right in front of you, that would be a sound deduction. Although I expected more from you.”

Molly stifled a yawn. “Well, I haven’t had my coffee yet, so don’t be too hard on me.”

“Go out for some?”

“Mm. Give me a moment,” she went to her wardrobe to grab some clothes. She turned to him suddenly, frowning. “How long since you ate?”

“Three days,” he said slowly, hastily rearranging his features to one of slight remorse. Food was not something he concerned himself with, but he knew that it worried her how little he ate sometimes. He didn’t know the exact time it started, but he found himself tampering his responses to her much like he did with Mrs Hudson. There was a soft fondness for the both of them that made him want to do it.

Molly sighed and shook her head. “ _How_ can you tolerate not eating for so long?”

“It’s just a matter of mind over body,” he shrugged. “The body is merely transport to me. Work always comes first.”

“It’s amazing, that’s what it is,” she mumbled, walking past him to go to the bathroom. “And positively stupid,” she added as an afterthought.

Sherlock smirked. She was always more unguarded with her words when she was still sleepy. But he knew that as much as she disliked his blatant disregard for his health, she would never force him to change – she merely accepted it as a part of him. That realisation reminded him of John, and he was hit with a rush of homesickness which he promptly suppressed. It was becoming easier to do as the months passed. He wondered if it was a good thing.

“Hurry up,” he said, pushing her into the bathroom. “If you’re so concerned over my diet, shower quickly so that we can have breakfast.”

Molly waved her hands dismissively in his direction, pulling a comical face and muttering something about him having the nerve to wake her early and then order her about.

 _Too much like John_ , he decided.

He made a mental note to annoy her more often in the mornings.

* * *

Molly sneaked a glance at Sherlock as she took a bite of her scrambled eggs. He was dressed in a white shirt and jeans today, even donning a pair of black spectacles. The glasses framed his face perfectly, emphasising his cheekbones and the shape of his eyes. It was a far cry from his usual look, but if one thing could be said about him, he seemed to look good in everything.

He was eating so fast that she was finding it difficult not to stare. It was fascinating that he could still be _graceful_ as he took large mouthfuls of his food. It certainly wasn’t fair to humanity, she mused. If she ever ate as quickly as he did, she’d probably be an embarrassing sight. He took a gulp of his tea and looked at her with a bemused expression.

“When people go for breakfast, they usually eat, not stare.”

Molly flushed crimson. She thought she was doing an admirable job at looking at him surreptitiously.

“I was just wondering why you seem so -”

“Excited? Delighted? Thrilled?”

“Mm, all of the above,” she smiled, her eyes softening at the Cheshire grin on his face. She hadn’t seen him this happy for so long.

He leaned in a little closer. “I merely acquired some vital information that may lead us to him very soon,” he said smugly.

Molly’s heart thudded at the mention of “us”. She’d always believed that he separated her from that part of his life, that he didn’t see them as a unit when it came to his work. She was always there to help on the periphery, but that was all. And now he was telling her otherwise. It made her chest blossomed with warmth.

“What?” he asked, his eyebrows furrowing.

“Nothing, I just -” She stopped when Sherlock suddenly sat up straighter, a look of pure anger flashing across his face for a split second. She saw his eyes hardening as he looked at the entrance across her shoulders.

“What’s wrong?” she was afraid to turn around.

“Kitty Riley,” he hissed.

“Who?”

“The journalist whom Moriarty sold my story to,” he said, glowering in that woman’s direction. Molly would’ve said something to pacify him, but she was more concerned over another matter.

“She might recognise you!”

Sherlock snorted. “Highly unlikely. Have you seen her? She’s stupid.”

“We shouldn’t take the chance.”

“Don’t be absurd,” he chided. “I’m not leaving, not because of her. And I haven’t finished my tea yet.”

Molly suppressed a sigh. The woman called Kitty sat at the table directly behind them. Sherlock’s back was to her, but she could see Molly clearly. She had the vague impression that the journalist was trying to cast furtive glances in her direction. She shifted in her seat.

“I think she’s trying to look at me,” she whispered to Sherlock, who still seemed unconcerned, taking a long sip of his tea. She had to admit that it was difficult to recognise him in this outfit, but it was risky to be so close to someone who’d been a part of his scandal.

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment. “Of course,” he murmured. “She’s trying to find her next great scoop.”

“Sorry?”

“She must have found out that I used to work with you,” he explained softly. “It’s nearing my birthday – she probably wants a chance at another big story, and what better time to publish something new about me than on the day of my birth?”

“So she’s stalking me now?” Molly’s eyes widened.

“Evidently.”

“Ok,” she said, placing her fork down. “We’re definitely leaving.”

“No, we’re not.”

“Sher – Ryan,” she said, deciding to use his alias instead.  

 He rolled his eyes.

“Please? I’m not comfortable with this. And it’s ridiculous if she recognises you now. This is not something to gamble with.”

She knew that he was a thrill-seeker, and being so close to getting discovered was making his adrenaline rush. She’d noticed the flicker of excitement in his eyes when Kitty Riley sat right behind them.

“It’s not worth it,” she said. He looked at her sharply. “The thrill. It’s not worth it.”

Sherlock frowned, pulling a sulky face. “Fine,” he snapped.

Molly inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. She quickly paid the bill and stood up to slip into her coat, ready to leave. Her heart sank when she saw Kitty Riley gulping down the remaining of her coffee at record speed.

She tugged at Sherlock’s arm, pulling him out of the restaurant quickly. She sneaked a glance and saw the journalist waving for her bill. The beginnings of a wave of panic flowed through her.

They walked briskly, weaving through the throng of people milling about on the streets. Molly glanced behind her shoulders a few times, and to her horror, saw the reddish brown hair of the journalist mere metres away.

“She wants to corner you and get you to talk,” he scoffed. “Probably thinks that we were a couple, since I didn’t work with anyone else in Bart’s. What an idiot.”

“What are we going to do?” They were certainly not losing her, and they couldn’t run – it would immediately arouse suspicion.

Sherlock’s eyes twinkled mischievously, and the corner of his lips turned up slightly into a smirk.

“Why are you doing that look?” she frowned.

“What look?”

“That one you have when you’re up to something.”

“I don’t have a look!” he protested.

“Then how do you explain that expression on your face?”

Sherlock scowled before pulling her closer towards him. “She wants a scoop, let’s give her one.”

“What?”

“Do keep up,” he said, half-dragging her along to match his long strides. “It’s obvious that Riley thinks we were a couple. If she sees you with a boyfriend now, she gets her gossip, and you get your cover.”

“My cover?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes irritably. “Yes, your cover. As you’ve told me earlier, John has started to move on, although I’m disappointed that he was senseless enough to grow a moustache. Mrs Hudson is moving on slowly, and Lestrade seems better off if he forgets me. It would make sense if you moved on as well. It would be natural, and it’ll protect you for now, in case anyone suspects anything.”

Molly nodded slowly. “What should we do then?”

“Act as a couple, of course,” he reached out to hold her hand.

They walked for a while longer, with Molly turning back occasionally to sneak a glance. Sherlock however, was still unperturbed. He was confident that he wasn’t going to be discovered. He was walking with a different gait than usual, looking completely like another man. She would never get used to his transformation into character.

They increased their pace gradually, but the journalist would always match their stride, keeping a short distance behind them.

It would seem that hand holding wasn’t sufficient evidence for Kitty Riley. Molly worried her lower lip, trying to come up with a plan as panic burgeoned inside her. There was only one thing she could think of. But Sherlock was probably going to be angry if she did it.

“It’s not working,” Sherlock finally said, starting to look a bit uncomfortable.

“Of course not! There’s nothing particularly interesting about holding hands.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows furrowed deeply. For once, he seemed clueless. Molly turned around again, and to her horror, saw that the journalist was only two persons behind them. There wasn’t a choice anymore. If Kitty Riley wanted a story, then they would have to give her one.

It wasn’t as if it were her fault. They were merely acting – forced to play the role of a couple.

She closed her fingers around Sherlock’s wrist and pulled him towards the side of the street, his back facing the journalist. Molly’s heart was beating so strongly against her chest, she thought that he would hear it.

Sherlock tilted his head, still not understanding. She inhaled a deep breath to calm herself down.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“Why are you sor -” His words were cut off when she pulled him towards her by his collar, gently touching her lips to his.

She shut her eyes tightly, hoping that he wouldn’t push her away. He seemed stunned for a moment, his body still as a statue, his lips unmoving against hers. She was just about to admit defeat and pull away when he started to return her kiss. Tentatively at first, like he didn’t know how to proceed.

She guessed that he probably nervous since he wasn’t well-versed in this area. She tried to distance herself from the emotions welling up inside her as his lips moved with hers, but it was difficult.

She had no idea how it happened, but this kiss was fast becoming very different from the one they shared when her mum had come over. That had been entirely chaste, just a sweet peck on the lips.

This was hungrier, slightly more frantic. His lips tasted faintly of the tea he just had, and they were so warm – so unlike how people saw him. He rested his hands on her hips, and he actually let out a soft sigh when she moved her hands to his curls. She had no idea he was so deep into his character as her boyfriend.

Suddenly remembering where they were, she lifted her eyelids by a fraction. Kitty Riley was staring at them from a distance, a smug smirk on her face. She whipped out her phone and typed in something before turning to leave.

Molly diverted her attention back to the kiss. Her eyes flickered to Sherlock’s face – his eyes were closed, but he was frowning, as if he were conflicted about something. She (reluctantly) pulled away.

“She’s gone?” Sherlock asked, his cheeks more flushed than usual. His voice was hoarse, and he was looking at anywhere but at her. The usual cold mask was back on his face again.

“Yeah.”

“Let’s go then,” he said tersely, starting to walk.

He didn’t talk to her the whole way back.

* * *

Sherlock’s chest tightened as his mind flitted back to their kiss. He was sprawled across Molly’s couch in his usual thinking fashion, fingers steepled under his chin and eyes closed.

He was trying to comprehend the strange sensations that he experienced when their lips had met. It differed from the first time he’d kissed her, and he was confused. It was the same pair of lips, so what had changed?

He didn’t know that a simple kiss could feel so overwhelming. Not that he had many memories to compare it with. The only other person he’d ever kissed besides Molly was a girl in university, and he couldn’t even remember her name anymore.

He’d heard people claiming that your mind went blank when kissed. It was a lie apparently. His had been racing, his senses sharpened. For that short moment, his mind had been completely occupied, and he _liked_ that.

Sherlock opened his eyes, glaring at the wall. He strode over to the cabinet to get another nicotine patch, desperately trying not to think about the fact that he may just want to kiss Molly Hooper again. 


	14. Chapter 14

Nothing was working. It had been two weeks since the kiss, and Sherlock could hardly focus his full attention onto more pressing matters. Not that there were many important things for him to tend to right now. Mycroft was doing all he could with the information Sherlock had provided, but there was nothing new for him to investigate as of yet. His brother had given him a thumb drive which contained random snippets of intelligence for him to piece together, but he wasn’t gaining much progress.

Every time he tried concentrating on something, his mind would flitter back to that memory that he’d desperately tried to delete, only to be reminded that he didn’t want it disappearing from his mind palace. His stupid body had decided that it wanted to remember the pressure and taste of her (not so thin) lips.    

He was behaving just like he was during his infatuation with Irene, except that this seemed far worse. He had only been intrigued by Irene, but he was actually fond of Molly. And being so close to her wasn’t helping his attempts to suppress the odd fluttery sensations he was experiencing in his stomach. He found his eyes straying to her lips whenever she came too close, or even when she did something simple like talk. She would notice sometimes, and her cheeks would flush crimson before she’d excuse herself, going into the kitchen to make more tea or hide in her bedroom. If they’d discussed about the incident, maybe it wouldn’t be as awkward as it was.

Instead, they chose to live amidst this new tension, and it was making him wildly suffocated. He chose to deal with it by pushing her away, refusing to talk to her for hours on end. She couldn’t understand why, probably thinking that he blamed her for the kiss. He was aware that he was hurting her, but understanding his new emotions took precedence right now.

Her bedroom door opened and he mentally prepared himself, grabbing his violin as he started on a series of boring diatonic scales while lying on her couch, looking unconcerned. He saw her stiffen as she walked pass the living room. 

“Morning,” she mumbled.

He nodded curtly before diverting his attention back to his scales. He heard her preparing some tea for the both of them, and for a short moment, he felt guilty. How could she still treat him nicely when he was, as John always said, being a git?

She placed his teacup on the coffee table and sat on the far end of the sofa, knees tucked under her chin as she occasionally blew across her tea to cool it. He drank his quietly, grateful for the distraction.

She went into the bathroom to prepare for work after, and he spent the next half hour contemplating about saying something to her, anything that might ease the tension between them.

“I’m off now, be back around eight,” she said, giving him a tentative wave by the door.

He wanted to tell her that he didn’t blame her at all, that it was ridiculous for her to think this way. Instead, the only word that resolved itself out of his mouth was a sharp, “Bye”.

The brief lowering of her dark eyes resulted in another stab of guilt through his chest.

* * *

Molly stared at the newspaper in disgust. She was having a little coffee break in her office, and was unlucky enough to have decided to flip through this morning’s news.

An article about her supposed past relationship with Sherlock Holmes, and the horrible fact that she’d moved on so quickly with another man – a heartthrob, no less – was in the gossip columns. Her lips were set into a thin line as she read the news.

No wonder her colleagues had been giving her weird looks today. Another titbit for their lunchtime gossip about her love life then.

She wondered how in the world Kitty Riley came to the conclusion that Sherlock was her boyfriend, and how people at Bart’s actually believed this rubbish. She was about to toss the newspaper aside when a young intern entered her office.

“Doctor Hooper? Doctor Stamford asked me to…” she shrank back slightly at the look on Molly’s face. “I’m sorry. Is this a bad time?”

Molly suppressed a sigh. She was definitely feeling stressed lately, and more short-tempered.

“No, it’s ok,” she said, attempting to give the young woman a smile, which probably came out like a grimace. The intern came forward and handed her a few files. More paperwork. Fantastic.

“He said to finish them by six today.”

“Right, thank you.” Her tone was sharper than usual, and she felt like a complete arse for behaving this way.

The intern scurried out of her office, and Molly closed her eyes tightly. This wouldn’t do. She’d have to talk to Sherlock tonight, and solve the strain in their relationship before she went insane.

* * *

Sherlock sat up straighter when he heard the turn of the key. He would have to proceed with his plan. It was the only rational course of action. He was a man of science, and he needed more data to make a conclusion.

Molly came into the flat holding a bag of takeaways. Chinese, her favourite restaurant near Bart’s, rice, a chicken dish, some stir-fry vegetables -

 _Irrelevant. Stop,_ he chided himself, forcing his mind to shut up. He went into the kitchen and advanced towards her.

“I got Chinese for dinner today, do you -” she turned around and jumped in fright – he was mere centimetres away from her.

“Sherlock?” Nervous, confused, her eyes widened. “Sherlock, what are y -”

He didn’t let her finish; he couldn’t.

He pressed his lips to hers, and she stiffened. But only for a split-second. He’d anticipated it, it was all too obvious.

Their lips started to move together, surprisingly in sync. He tried to forget the softness of her lips ( _how can they be this soft? It isn't possible, they certainly don’t look this – stop, focus_ ), and the gentle pressure on his lips that was so pleasant. He needed to concentrate on the myriad of sensations and catalogue them for reference later, but there were simply too many.

Instead, all he could think about was how much he liked this. Warmth blossomed in his chest, and it was radiating to the tips of his being. He could feel every one of her fingertips brushing across his cheeks, his jaw, his neck. They moved to his hair; he let his arms settled on her waist. He actually moaned ( _what the hell)_ when she ran her tongue across his lips, teasing them open. He had just decided to grant her access when she suddenly made a small high-pitched noise, pulling away.

“What are you doing?” she whispered.

He was breathing heavily, and it was difficult to form a coherent thought – his emotions were more jumbled than before. And it made him nervous that he was feeling this way.

“Experiment,” he finally said.

“What?” He knew he’d said something terribly wrong from the flash of anger in her normally kind eyes. He looked away.

“Do you think this is a game?” she asked, her voice unnervingly soft. The hurt was blatantly reflected in her eyes – she’d never been able to mask her emotions well. It should make him dislike her, but he was seemingly incapable of that.

“You don’t just kiss someone for an experiment!” her voice was rising with every word. “Especially not someone who loves you!”

Both of them flinched. He was utterly shocked. No one had ever told him that before, and he felt something hot prickle through his body. Meanwhile, Molly’s entire face had flushed red, and she was chewing on her lower lip.

Silence descended upon them, and he didn’t know how to handle this – he wasn’t equipped to face such situations. He was just about to say something when the front door opened. 

“Sherlock?” his brother’s voice called. He walked to the kitchen and frowned at the sight of them.

“Having a cold war?”

“Shut up, Mycroft,” Sherlock snapped.

His brother merely smirked, “I’ll take that as a yes.”

“How did you get in without the keys?” Molly asked after she’d calmed herself enough.

“I procured a set during one of my visits here. I hope you don’t mind,” he gave her a reptilian smile, clearly showing that there was nothing she could do even if she _did_ mind.

“In the event that something unforeseen happens here, I would rather not have to break down your door, Miss Hooper. I’m sure you share the same sentiment,” he continued.

Molly sighed and closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Do what you want, I’ve had enough of the Holmes family for today,” she said, before walking into her bedroom and closing the door loudly. Mycroft seemed mildly surprised, his eyes flickering over to Sherlock.

“What are you here for?” Sherlock asked rudely.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “New lead,” he said, handing him another file. “And a new identity.”

“Another one?”

“Yes,” his brother smiled thinly. “It’s called taking precautions.”

Sherlock opened the file and skimmed through the first page. “Jeremy Baker?” he scoffed. “Baker?”

“It’s a common name that will help you blend in. You’d be surprised how little things like that can add up.”

“You need more creativity,” Sherlock muttered.

“I’ll be off now. Behave yourself,” Mycroft fixed him with a stern look, which only made him roll his eyes. His brother was just about to step out of the door when he turned back.

“And Sherlock? The next time you want to kiss a woman, at least try to tell her first.”

The tips of Sherlock’s ears turned red, and Mycroft had enough sense to quickly close the door behind him.

Sherlock ruffled his hair in frustration. His curls were growing back, and his dark roots were showing – he’d have to dye his hair again. At least there was another assignment. It’d keep him from thinking too much about Molly for now.

He wondered when it was exactly that she had started to permeate his thoughts every single day. 


	15. Chapter 15

Sherlock ordered a chicken pie and two cups of coffee, choosing a seat outside the café where he could have a proper view of the block of flats opposite. He was halfway through his coffee when he felt a small poke on his left shoulder.

“Spare change, mister?” a sweet voice asked softly.

“None,” he replied. “But I have a chicken pie if you want one.”

The girl’s eyes brightened considerably and her face lit up. She was just about to accept his offer when a sullen-looking waiter came out of the café.

“No street kids here! Beg somewhere else,” he snapped, towering over the girl. She shrank back slightly, her dark eyes darting toward Sherlock.

“She’s with me,” Sherlock said curtly, fixing the idiot with a cold glare. The waiter glared back before shuffling into the café again, muttering something that sounded like “bastard” under his breath. If Sherlock was allowed to be his old self, he would’ve publicly deduced the waiter till he shook in his shoes. It was obvious that he was a porn addict with a kink for ropes. Instead, he forced himself to calm down.

“Thank you!” the child smiled. She sat down beside him before tucking heartily into the pie. He noted two more marks on her arms compared to yesterday. She took a few bites and eyed the other cup of coffee hungrily.

“Tell me what you observed yesterday,” Sherlock said. “Then you can have the coffee.”

The girl launched into describing everyone she saw going into and leaving the block of flats with unnerving enthusiasm.

Her name was Annie (about nine years old – she refused to tell him her age; ridiculous, as all children were), and Sherlock had met her on his second day in Dublin. She had continually pestered him for some spare change, and he’d been about to deduce something cruel to stop her when he realised that she was living in the alley right beside the block of flats he needed to keep watch on. It was the perfect location for a stake-out, and he had since employed her help, trading food for information.

He had asked about the marks on her arms during the third day of their acquaintance, briskly deducing that it was her father. It turned out to be her perpetually drunk mother – it was the reason she preferred staying out on the streets and sleeping outdoors rather than at home. It had been three weeks since then.

She finished her narrative happily (unfortunately nothing note-worthy) and dived back into devouring her pie, crumbs all over her tiny mouth. Sherlock cringed inwardly but didn’t look away – he was never very fond of children (well, people in general), but this one was at least tolerable despite her many faults. He found that she had above-average intelligence and a rather admirable memory for someone so young. It helped that she was a spitting image of how he had pictured Molly as a child. Not that he’d pictured her _often_ , but after spending more time with her, he found himself speculating about her childhood out of pure curiosity. He pushed the cup of coffee towards Annie and she muttered a thanks.

“Why won’t you tell me your name?” she asked, wiping her lips with the back of her hands. He frowned disapprovingly, gesturing to some napkins at the side of the table.

“I suggest you mind your own business.”

She giggled, “You’re so rude sometimes.”

He rolled his eyes, drawing another giggle from her. He had no idea why she needed to laugh at everything. It was unsettling, how happy she seemed despite her living conditions. She reminded him of some of the people from his homeless network back in London. They were always the ones with the brightest smiles. The thought of bright smiles brought his mind back to Molly.

“If you’re done, you may leave. I need to concentrate,” he said, his voice sharper than he’d intended.

“Oh.” Her face fell and she absently rubbed her arms. Sherlock dug into his pockets.

“Here,” he said, his voice softening slightly. “You push this, and it’ll open up.”

Annie frowned, but took the object from him anyway. She held it up to inspect it. “Most people don’t give children weapons.”

“I’m not most people.”

“It’s a crime to hurt someone with an army-knife.”

“It’s not a crime if it’s administered in self-defence,” he countered.

Annie gave this some thought. “I like you,” she smiled, slipping her small hand in his. He jerked back, pulling his hand away. Instead of looking upset, Annie merely giggled and poked him in his stomach, like she was expecting this.

“Leave now,” he ordered, getting irritated. “I need to work.”

Annie chuckled, “Alright, grumpy pants.” She gave him another poke before running off into the streets, slipping the knife into her pockets.

* * *

It wasn’t after three cups of coffee later that he finally spotted the man he was supposed to find. Adam Ahern stepped out of a dark blue sedan, casting surreptitious glances around before making his way into the building.

A triumphant smile crept onto Sherlock’s face. Patience was indeed a virtue then. He’d been so close to calling Mycroft a few times to snap at him, frustrated that he’d sent him on an assignment that seemed useless. But here was the man – a supposed trusted acquaintance of Moran who specialised in chemical and biological weapons for the crime syndicate. Moriarty must have supplied thousands of these weapons to terrorists during his years in charge.

Sherlock hastily gulped down the last of his bitter coffee before standing up to leave, tightening his grey scarf around his neck. It was one of the things he was thankful for – he could don clothes he usually preferred since it was mid-spring. No Belstaff of course, but at least he could still wear a coat and scarf without drawing any unwanted attention. The only annoying thing was that the cool air often dried his brown contact lenses up. He hated those things with a vengeance.

He was across the street in a flash. Making sure that his light brown moustache was still in its proper place, he entered the building. He’d gotten the inspiration from the pictures that John had sent Molly. Facial hair somehow made him look older, and he needed to add a few years to his face so that people would respect him more easily. His usual boyish features were not an advantage right now.

His heart was thudding heavily as he ascended the flight of stairs to the flat that Mycroft had described to him.

He rapped sharply on the door, taking a deep breath to soothe his nerves. If The Woman had done her job in Ukraine well, then the man would be expecting him.

The door opened slightly and a pair of light green eyes studied him suspiciously from behind the crack.

“Bromide,” he recited the password Mycroft’s man had discovered. He laughed inwardly at the drama of the situation – it was as if he were in a James Bond movie that John had forced him to watch once. He reminded himself to delete that awful memory later.

The door closed and he heard the rattling of a chain. It opened again and the man ushered him in, locking the door behind him.

“Evening,” Ahern greeted as Sherlock took in his surroundings. The flat was greatly under-furnished. It was obvious that this was not Ahern’s home, but a place for him to engage in his dirty side business. There was a study desk in the living room, a couple of armchairs, and a floor lamp. Unopened boxes lined the sides of the flat, leading into the rooms.

“Evening.”

“You’re the one Diane Larsson recommended?”

Sherlock nodded, sticking out his right hand. “Jeremy Baker.”

“She’s a very charming lady,” Ahern continued, ignoring his outstretched arm. Sherlock smiled tightly, letting his hand drop.

“She is,” he agreed. "I trust she knew what you liked?"

Ahern smiled. “Let’s sit, shall we?” He gestured to the armchairs. Sherlock sat on the one nearer to the study table – it was hard and largely unused.

“Drink?” Ahern asked, moving over to the desk to pour a glass of whiskey for himself.

“No, thank you,” Sherlock said. He disliked alcohol, and only turned to it whenever he was undergoing a large amount of stress, which was rarely.

Ahern shrugged and took a seat opposite Sherlock, taking a noisy sip of his whiskey, swirling the golden liquid in his glass as he studied him. After a pause, the ends of his lips curved upwards. It was a fake smile, trained over the years to look genuine – it took a skilled pair of eyes to detect the insincerity.

“So you’re looking to work for me?”

 _Of course, you idiot._ “Yes,” Sherlock nodded. “I was beginning to think that you weren’t returning from Eastern Europe.”

Ahern smirked and ran his fingers through his blond hair. “I got a little…distracted. Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“No trouble at all.”

“Diane has told me a lot about your knowledge on chemistry, and I’m interested to see it…but you do know that there is an initiation process before you can join the network?”

Sherlock grinned, “I don’t think we’ll need an initiation process, Mr Ahern.”

“Oh? Why is that?”

Sherlock dug into his coat and brought out a thin file that his brother had handed him. His secrets, Mycroft had said. Apparently, it had taken years for the British intelligence to gather them, and they could finally be put to use.

Ahern’s eyebrows furrowed deeply as he read. He closed the file after a minute, staring hard at Sherlock. “Where did you get this information?”

“I have my sources. And I'm feeling generous today, so let me warn you that this is merely the tip of an iceberg.”

He saw Ahern stiffen and felt a small surge of satisfaction.

“You’re not really here to work for the syndicate, are you?” Ahern finally asked.

“No.”

“Then what is it you seek?”

“Information,” Sherlock replied, sitting straighter. “I need intelligence on Moran, and you’re going to give it to me, or you’ll find that those  _secrets_ in the file will cease being confidential.”

“How do I know if I can trust you to keep them confidential?”

“You don’t,” Sherlock smirked, enjoying the displeasure on his face.

 Ahern rubbed his face with his hands, knowing that he was beaten. He sighed and walked towards his desk, placing his drink on the table.

“Well, if that’s the case,” he said quietly. “I’ll just have to tell you what I know then, don’t I?”

“That would be a smart decision.”

“Alright.” Ahern turned towards him with an odd smile. It took Sherlock a split second to see the flash of something bright in the air. He tried to leap out of the armchair, but felt a short, piercing pain in his neck. Panic flooded his body.

Sherlock slumped back onto the chair as Ahern pulled a needle out of his skin. His vision was starting to get blurry, his brain cloudy. His feet could not move; he felt like a stone statue.

“It’s something new that I came up with,” Ahern whispered, his breath hot against Sherlock’s cheek. “It’ll help you relax. Great stuff.” He lifted his glass towards his lips and took another sip.

“It’s nice to finally meet you, Sherlock Holmes.”    


	16. Chapter 16

He was soaring, white all around him. He was light, weightless, ethereal. Warmness spread from his chest to the tips of his fingers, and his lips curved into a grin. He felt comfortable, carefree, _happy_. Nothing mattered right now; all he wanted was for this feeling to remain. This feeling of absolute bliss and relaxation.

The scene changed, and he found himself in the middle of Baker Street. John and Molly were sitting on the sofa, and he attempted to call out their names. Nothing materialised. He tried moving, but was glued to the spot. They stood up, turning to leave. Sherlock tried calling them again. Nothing, just a hideous croak. He looked at his friends in alarm. Why couldn’t they see or hear him? Why? He inhaled sharply for another try, but felt a rough shove on his right shoulder.

“Sherlock Holmes, time to wake up.”

He opened his eyes blearily, his head heavy and spinning. Nausea was building in the depths of his stomach, and he swallowed hard to prevent anything from rising up. It took him a while before his view came into focus.

Adam Ahern was staring at him intensely with those green eyes, as if he were studying a prey. Sherlock jolted awake and groaned softly. His body was remarkably stiff. It only took him a few seconds to understand why.

He was slumped on the floor beside the study desk, his arms forcibly spread out eagle-like. Each of his hands was cuffed to one of the table legs. His legs were stretched out in front of him, feet bound tightly together with a white rope. If he was in an upright position, he’d look exactly like -

“You’ve been asleep for three hours,” Ahern said, interrupting his thoughts. “Not bad actually. Most people would’ve been completely passed out for half a day. You must have done drugs before, to have this level of resilience.”

Sherlock shook his head in a desperate attempt to clear it. He was awake, but that didn’t mean that his mind wasn’t still cloudy. He was having trouble thinking straight, his thoughts jumbled and chaotic. In fact, his mind was screaming at him to not think at all.

“Want some water?” Ahern asked, pulling a chair over to sit in front of Sherlock.

Sherlock glared at him, causing him to laugh. “Don’t look so bitter. I’ll let you go once I’ve discussed something with you. Now,” he said, leaning closer. “You be good, and I won’t hurt you.”

“Fine claim to be making, seeing how you’ve positioned me like I’m the next Jesus Christ,” he spat.

Ahern chuckled deeply, “Caught that didn’t you? You have to forgive me, I do love some theatricality.” He paused, leaning back and admiring his handiwork. “You must have some questions. I’ll let you ask some, since I’m in a particularly good mood.”

“How did you know it was me?”

Ahern grinned, “I’m a scientist, Mr Holmes. My mind may not be as brilliant as yours, but it’s not too far behind either. And unfortunately for you, I have an eidetic memory. Details are very easy for me to observe and remember. Your fingers, your lips. Those are things you can’t really hide. Most people would miss it, but not me. You did a terrific job though, I almost couldn’t recognise you. _Almost._ ”

Sherlock’s pulse started to race. “Why haven’t you told Moran about me yet?”

“That idiot?” he scoffed. “Let me tell you a little secret. I hate that little fucker,” his eyes glinted maliciously, and Sherlock leaned back slightly.

“He only managed to take over the network because he was fucking Moriarty.” He raised his eyebrows when Sherlock didn’t respond. “Didn’t get that did you? Moran wasn’t just Moriarty’s pet. Although I think Jim pretty much used him as a way to gain sexual release. He was a sick bastard. ”

“Lucky you’re not all that.”

 Ahern’s lips flattened into a thin line. “Yes, lucky isn’t it?” he whispered.

The blow to his temple came so quickly that Sherlock was caught off-guard. His head knocked against the table and a sharp pain erupted at the back of his skull. His lips moved, but he silenced his moan in time. He wasn’t going to give Ahern the satisfaction.

“I told you to be good,” Ahern murmured.

“I’m not a dog that listens to orders,” he snapped, eyes still tearing.

“No,” he agreed, settling back on his chair. “Let’s get back to business, shall we? I want to talk to you about Moran.”

“What about him?”

“As I’ve mentioned, I hate that little fucker. He’s thick in the head, not exciting. A military man through and through. He doesn’t contribute much to the network at all.”

“And you think you can?”

“Careful, Mr Holmes. Wouldn’t want another punch now, would you?” He leaned forward. “It’s pretty obvious now that you’ve been tracking down members of the network close to Moran. You have some information that I’ll find useful. I propose that you work with me, bring down his little posse from within, and let me have the throne.”

Sherlock laughed, “Why would I want to do that?”

“Because unlike Moran, I don’t give a fuck about you and your little friends. Moriarty means nothing to me. I have no personal issues with you. All I want is the network. You’d be safe if we succeed.”

Sherlock glanced at his cuffs and raised his eyebrows, “Yes, I feel safer already.”

Ahern slapped him hard. “Behave.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “You’ve just told me that you’re going to betray Moran, who sees you as a trusted acquaintance. Clearly you’re not to be trusted.”

“I think you underestimate my desire for the network, Mr Holmes.”

“I think you overestimate your worth to me.”

Ahern’s eyes flashed angrily and he dealt a punch to Sherlock’s jaw. A crack sounded, and Sherlock dipped his head to the side, spitting out some blood. He tested his jaw. Not broken.

“You seem to enjoy being beaten, don’t you?” Ahern said, looking mildly disappointed. “You’re a freak.”

Sherlock stayed silent. Every time Ahern hit him, his mind was given more time to regain its usual clarity. He experimentally moved his fingers and toes, which were still clumsy. 

Ahern rubbed his eyes, as if tired by their exchange. “I’ll go make some tea. Give you some time to think.”

Sherlock glowered at his retreating figure. The minute he was in the kitchen, Sherlock turned his head and lowered it to the inside of his coat collar, nudging it until his nose came into contact with the thing he fervently hoped was there. He heaved a sigh of relief.

He twisted his neck painfully, aligning his mouth to the bobby pin sewn into the side of his collar. He secretly thanked Mycroft’s foresight (the coat was from him) as he positioned the bobby pin between his teeth, tugging hard.

The pin was released from the thread easily. He heard footsteps and hastily hid it inside his mouth, rearranging his features to one of nonchalance as Ahern settled back on the chair.

“Well?” he prompted. “Have you decided? Shall we cooperate?”

“Of course,” he laughed flatly. “I’ll cooperate once you stop being a jealous idiot who’s clearly trying to conceal the fact that _you_ used to have some feelings for dear Jim. Tell me, when was it that you realised Jim preferred Moran over you? Hated Jim after that, didn’t you? How can Jim like a traditional military man instead of you? You, who have a brilliant mind like him, and a talent for inventing weapons. Jim made you feel useless, insignificant. Now you want to get rid of anything that reminds you of him. Usurping Moran is your form of revenge. For god’s sake, you are so painfully obvious in your feelings.”

“You -” Ahern’s fingers tightened around the teacup.

Sherlock made a pitiful face, “What? Didn’t think that I could deduce you in my drugged state? You did say that my mind was better than yours, or have you forgotten?”

“SHUT UP!” he roared, flinging the cup at Sherlock. He turned his face, but some of the hot water still scalded his skin. He grimaced and groaned softly. Fuck.

Ahern sprang up and began attacking him. Punches, smacks and slaps to his face, stomach, head, chest. Sherlock bit down on his lower lip, preventing himself from crying out.   

Both men were panting heavily when Ahern finally became exhausted. Sherlock’s ears were ringing, and he licked his bloody lips. An acute pain shot through his ribs every time he breathed in. He shut his eyes tightly, concentrating on refocusing his mind.

“You’re a piece of work, you know that?” Ahern breathed. He looked disdainfully at the blood on his hands. He crouched beside Sherlock, gripping his hair roughly and tilting his head towards him.

“I’m going to go make another cuppa now. And wash my fucking hands. When I’m back, I expect an answer that I like, or I won’t hesitate to kill you. Understood?”

Sherlock nodded.

Satisfied, Ahern made his way to the kitchen, flexing his bruised fingers.

Sherlock got to work immediately. He positioned the bobby pin between his teeth, straining his body to the right as he brought it close to the handcuff’s lock. He pulled his right hand as close to him as he could, careful to be quiet. The pain was almost unbearable, but he reminded himself that the body was only transport. He could tolerate it.

He slipped the bobby pin into the tiny lock and started to twist and turn it gently. He’d done this many times before. But he was mostly in a comfortable position back in 221B, experimenting for fun. Panic was just beginning to build inside him when he heard the welcomed click of the lock. He freed his right hand and got to work on his left. It only took him about a minute before both of his hands were free.

Sherlock untied the rope restraining his feet, his fingers slipping clumsily a few times. He’d just released them from their confinements when Ahern returned, another steaming cup of tea in his hands. His green eyes widened in pure alarm.

Sherlock didn’t give him any time to respond. He scrambled up, launching himself at the man. Ahern grunted, falling backwards as his cup smashed onto the floor. Sherlock pinned him beneath his body before summoning all his strength in a punch to his jaw. The ensuing loud crack made him feel contented. He threw another punch to his temple, effectively knocking him out.

* * *

Annie was bored. None of her friends were out on the streets tonight, since it was rather cold. She wrapped herself up tighter in her coat, the dark blue already fading from constant use. Her hand touched the army-knife the mystery man had given her earlier, and she decided that she would find him for company.

She walked over to the café, hoping that he would be there. He usually was at this time, silently studying the building opposite. She frowned when she couldn’t find him. Sighing, she decided to wait by the alley – maybe she’d see something that would be important to him.

She crossed the street, and was just about to make her way to the corner when she heard a shout coming from above. She looked up curiously, and to her horror, saw the figure of the mystery man in a flat. There was a larger man in front of him. The mystery man ran towards the larger man before both of them disappeared from view.

Annie stared at the window, willing the mystery man to appear again.

* * *

Sherlock stood up shakily, holding onto anything in his path to steady himself out of the flat. He was badly bruised and every step was torture. His mind was still slightly sluggish, and the beatings had only worsened his condition. He’d only taken a few steps down the stairs when it hit him.

He had to kill Adam Ahern.

If Ahern lived, Moran would find out about his faked suicide. His whole plan would be rendered ineffectual, and his friends would be in danger again.

The realisation stunned him. He had never murdered anyone before. He knew that this was necessary, and a need always had to be fulfilled. But the thought of killing someone made him sick. He never knew how people like John and The Woman could kill and go about their lives. He shook his head – now wasn’t the time to ponder over this.

Laboriously, Sherlock made his way back into the house. He opened the door hesitantly and peered in. He closed his eyes. Ahern’s body was missing.

The cool barrel of a gun was pressed to the back of his skull. He was roughly pushed into the flat.

“Turn around,” Ahern rasped, nudging the silencer deeper into his head.

Sherlock obeyed, shifting his body. He was going to die here. He had failed. He wouldn’t be able to see John, Mrs Hudson, Mycroft, Lestrade, Molly…

“Mister?”

Her sweet voice sent a bolt of terror through Sherlock’s heart.

Ahern didn’t hesitate. In one swift motion, he spun around and aimed his gun at Annie, pulling the trigger.  A red patch appeared at her abdomen, burgeoning rapidly. She sank to her knees, a soft moan escaping her lips.

Sherlock yelled something unintelligible and closed his fingers around Ahern’s neck. Rage surged within him, energising his lethargic body. He kicked Ahern to the ground and threw punch after punch at his face. He didn’t stop even when his knuckles were raw and bleeding. Ahern’s grip on the silencer slackened, and Sherlock grabbed it from him. He aimed it at his head and without a second thought, pulled the trigger.

The blood and bits of brain that splattered onto his face startled him. The smell of blood permeated the room, thick and metallic. He desperately wanted to vomit as he stared down at Ahern’s glazed-over eyes. Flashes of Moriarty’s dead face entered his mind. Sherlock dropped the gun from his shaking hands and backed away from the body.

A cry of pain caught his attention. He made his way to Annie and lowered himself on his knees, gathering her limp body into his arms. She was still alive, but barely. She stared at him with large eyes, her breath coming in short rasps.

Sherlock held her small hand in his while he gazed back.

“I’m ten years old,” she whispered, tears sliding off her pale cheeks.

“I deduced that you were nine,” he said softly. Annie gripped onto his hand tightly, her body quivering.

“I’m Sherlock Holmes,” he murmured. “That’s my real name.”

A look of pure wonder crossed her face. “I thought the telly said you died.”

“The telly was wrong.”

“Maybe if you didn’t really die, then I won’t too?” she asked.

Sherlock’s initial reaction was to inform her that she was wrong. But the hope in her brown eyes muted him. He swallowed to ease the lump in his throat.

“Maybe,” he said quietly.

She smiled and closed her eyes, drawing in a final shaky breath.

Sherlock bent his forehead to hers for a moment before laying her body gingerly on the ground. He stood up to close the door before digging his phone from his pockets, dialling his brother’s number. Mycroft picked up almost instantly.

“What happened?” he asked briskly.

“I got compromised.”

“What?” Mycroft hissed.

“I’m alright now. Two people are dead though. Send someone to clear this mess. They’re at the flat I was staking-out.”

“Sherlock –”

“Send a doctor to my hotel room. And get me lab access at a hospital by tomorrow.”

“Sherlock –”

“Just do it, Mycroft. Please,” he added.

Mycroft hesitated before agreeing.

Sherlock closed his eyes in relief, silently grateful. “Mycroft?”

“Hm?”

“Don’t tell Molly.”

“Of course.”

Sherlock hung up and went to clean his face. He buttoned his coat and adjusted his scarf. He was lucky that it was dark now – no one would be able to see his battered face. He slipped the syringe Ahern had used on him in his pocket before leaving the flat.


	17. Chapter 17

Sherlock grimaced as he shifted his body on the bed, inwardly cursing Ahern with every swear word he could think of, most of them contributed by John’s colourful vocabulary. The doctor Mycroft had sent was packing her instruments away, a slightly flustered look on her pale face, the result of his snarky manners towards her.

“Well, Mr Baker, you just need a few days’ rest. Your body’s going to be very sore, but other than that, you’ll be alright. No broken bones or internal bleeding.”

He nodded curtly. The doctor’s eyes were still on him, but he stared resolutely ahead, ignoring her. That way, she’d leave faster. People always did.

“I’ll be off now,” she muttered, sounding a bit hurt. “Try to refrain from doing anything strenuous.”

Despite her words, she lingered, probably wanting to ask about the circumstances surrounding his injuries. Mycroft must have paid her a pretty sum to remain quiet on the matter, but people were naturally nosy. He fixed her with his best ‘I-know-I’m-intimidating’ look, and she was scurrying out of his room within the next minute. He smirked when she closed the door – how pointedly predictable.

He gingerly stretched out his legs as he stared at his phone, absently rubbing a bruise on his hip. One minute, two minutes, three –

His phone rang.

He hesitated before picking up.

“There was a child?” Mycroft sounded absolutely furious. That was rare.

“Since you’re asking about her, the obvious answer would be ‘yes’.”

“How did a child get involved, Sherlock? And give me a good answer,” he demanded, barely able to keep the quiver from his voice.

“It was an unfortunate case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Sherlock lowered his eyes, an image of Annie’s lifeless body flitting through his mind.

“Gunshot wound…” Mycroft muttered. “You do realise that this girl has a family? I’m going to have to send someone to deal with this.”

“Her mother abused her,” Sherlock said flatly. “I highly doubt she’s going to miss her much.”

His response drew a dry laugh from his brother. “You’d be surprise how abusive parents can get protective of their offspring. A twisted sort of love, shall we say?” He paused. “How am I going to explain this? No one just gets shot in a safe part of town. Especially not a young girl.”

“Make something up,” Sherlock frowned, another stab of pain issuing from his ribs. “A common car crash. Manipulate her body. You did it with my decoy after the fall.”

“These things cost money, Sherlock. And contrary to your beliefs, I am _not_ the British government. I have people in Parliament whom I have to account to.” For the first time, Sherlock heard the fatigue in Mycroft’s voice, making him sound older than his years. His insides twisted with something suspiciously akin to guilt.

“You’re an expert in lying. Why are you complaining?”

“I’m not complaining. I’m angry with you! You’ve already given me enough trouble with the Adler debacle the last time. For god’s sake, try and be more careful or -”

“Or what?” Sherlock snapped, his temper rising. It wasn’t completely his fault – how was he to know that he was facing off with a madman? “You’ll remove me from this operation? You need me, Mycroft. Don’t deny it.”

“Behave yourself,” his brother’s voice turned hard. “Or you’ll find a significant decrease in your allowance.”

Sherlock snorted. Same old threat since he was in university. “Decrease it, I don’t care. It’s not like I can just waltz into a shop and purchase anything I want now, can I? Might get kidnapped again,” he sneered.

“Speaking of which, how were you held hostage?”

Sherlock paused, biting on the inside of his cheek. “He made me inhale some chloroform.” He could picture his brother rolling his eyes. “He had the element of surprise,” he continued, making sure to sound defensive.

Mycroft huffed out a breath of air, “You’ve made a mess of this. I have to conceal this incident before Moran suspects any foul play. Is there anything else I should know?”

Sherlock stiffened. He removed the syringe from his pocket, turning it lazily between his fingers as he observed the remaining solution swish around in the tube.  

“No.”

Mycroft hung up almost immediately, leaving Sherlock completely alone in his three-star hotel room which he detested.

He was exhausted, but his mind refused to surrender to his drooping eyelids. Instead, it was bent on reminding him about the mushy texture of Ahern’s brain, and his bloody hands after he’d held onto Annie. Her brown eyes, those that scarily reminded him of Molly’s, stared back, blank and lifeless whenever he dared to close his eyes for a few short seconds, jolting him awake.

Sherlock ruffled his hair and scowled. He loved his mind, was extremely proud of it even. But it was times like this that made him wish he could be a little more…human and simple, a little more like those miserable mouth-breathers who surrounded him daily.

The doctor had left him a few sleeping pills, but he wasn’t keen on taking them. If anything, the subconscious part of his mind was even worse. Memories would distort wildly, becoming more gruesome, more frightening and more grotesque, whenever he entered the land of dreams. He should know – Moriarty loved visiting him during the first few months after the fall, leaving him a sweaty mess after he’d woken up.

His eyes fell onto the syringe lying beside him, and he became painfully aware of how the hunger in his body was growing. It appeared an hour or so after he’d woken up from his drugged state. But he’d been too focused on surviving then to bother about this sensation, which was oddly familiar and yet, strange. The worrisome thing was that the hunger hadn’t stopped. And he’d only experienced this feeling ages ago, something that he’d buried in the depths of his Mind Palace.

His breathing quickened at the realisation of what this might actually be, but he could only ascertain the truth tomorrow, when he would get lab access. For now, all he could do was wait for the sun to rise. He hated this feeling of helplessness and uncertainty.

He picked up his phone, desperately needing a distraction. It was late and he knew it was rude to call someone at this hour, but if he didn’t do something, he was going to go insane from waiting. Crap telly was not an inviting option.

Someone picked up on the third ring. His eyebrows furrowed deeply at the voice.

“Where’s Molly?” he demanded rudely, not bothering to greet The Woman.

Irene sighed, as if expecting his acrimonious tone. “She’s sleeping, Mr Holmes. In case you haven’t noticed, it’s bloody two in the morning.”

“Pass the phone to her.”

“No. She has work in a few hours.”

“How _gracious_ of you to think about her.”

“She’s my friend,” Irene said coldly. “Unlike you, I actually do spare a thought for others sometimes.”

 Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Just do it, Woman. It’s important.”

“Oh, really?” her voice turned teasing. “Miss her now, don’t you?”

He clenched his fist, trying to rein his temper in. Being angry wasn’t going to help get Molly on the phone.

“Irene, if you don’t get her on the phone now, I’m going to turn ugly the next time we meet,” he said warningly.

Irene merely chuckled. “Don’t think that’s going to happen. Your brother seems very apt at scheduling our assignments. We hardly ever cross paths anymore, or haven’t you noticed? I think he’s afraid that I might compromise you again. Anyway, what makes you think I wouldn’t like for you to turn ugly on me? Might be interesting.”

“Woman!” he snapped.

“Alright, relax cheekbones!”

There was some shuffling before he heard Molly’s sleepy voice. It sounded muffled, and he conjured up an image of her completely snuggled under her light blue duvet. It was her favourite sleeping position.

“Sherlock?” she mumbled.

He instantly relaxed at her voice, and was unwilling to examine why. For a moment, he wished that she could be here, beside him. It would be like having a little piece of…home with him, he supposed.

“Tell me what you did during work.”  

“What?”

 “Just talk. Say anything.”

“Did you wake me up just for this?” she sounded irritated now, obviously she was fully awake and remembered that she still hadn’t forgiven him for kissing her unawares for a supposed experiment.

"Yes,” he said finally.

He expected her to turn off her phone and resume sleeping. Most people would – who would want to entertain a call from someone like him in the middle of the night? He wouldn’t even blame her if she did hang up.

“Sherlock, what’s wrong?” she asked, voice turning gentle.

Oh.

“Nothing.” He racked his brain for an excuse. “I’m bored.”

“No you’re not. My voice has never grabbed your attention before while you were bored.”

He cursed inwardly for forgetting that Molly remembered things like that. Like how she knew he didn’t eat while on cases, or how he took his coffee black only after telling her once.

He didn’t have a reply, and was just about to hang up to save himself from some embarrassment when she talked.

“I did an autopsy on a cancer patient today. Forth stage liver failure.”

He closed his eyes as she went on, describing every single detail of the autopsy meticulously, with complete accuracy. He let his mind sink into the moment, imagining himself watching the process. The familiarity of the situation calmed him, and the hunger building inside subsided slightly.

His eyes opened when she failed at stifling a yawn. She made a tired sound before continuing. He pictured her rubbing her sleep-heavy eyes.

“Molly.”

“Hmm?”

“You should go back to bed.”

“It’s ok, I’ll keep you company if you want.”

He felt a twinge in his chest, something that he’d learnt to associate with her. In fact, this sensation only surfaced when he was with Molly.

He wanted her to continue talking, really he did, but the thought of her struggling to stay awake also felt wrong.

“It’s alright, I want to sleep now,” he lied.

“Oh, ok then. Goodnight.”

“Night.”

“Sherlock?” she murmured. “Miss you.”

His lips twitched slightly. She must be very drowsy to say that, her usual inhibitions lowered. He heard Irene laughing in the background.

 _Miss you too,_ he thought.

* * *

Sherlock paced around the lab impatiently, tapping his fingers against his chin. He would go for some coffee to pass the time, but he wasn’t too fond of that beverage, and the coffee here was even worse than that at Bart’s. Coupled with having to spend hours watching some crap telly, he was in a foul mood.

He sat back down on the lab stool and tapped his feet. Any minute now.

The machine made a beeping noise and he almost sprang out of the chair, hastily making his way over. He closed his eyes and drew in a steady breath before looking at the results of the test.

His heart sank.

Right on the screen was the very word he’d dreaded and expected.  Sherlock’s hands shook slightly as he fought to maintain his composure.

The solution Ahern had injected him with consisted of many familiar substances. But there was one he had an all too unfavourable history with.

Heroin.


	18. Chapter 18

It was war. Or at least, it felt like one.

A flood of sensations battling inside him, all eager to claim victory. His desire for the drug grew and ebbed continuously, gradually exhausting his resolve to triumph over his craving.

He’d been clean for almost eight years, but he knew an addiction never truly disappeared. It was only asleep, patiently waiting for a crack to slip through. And Ahern had effectively created a gaping hole.

He’d panicked upon discovering the substance. His history with drugs had been dreadful, and what made it worse was that he’d done heroin before, making his body more susceptible to it again.

His relationship with drugs had started during his university years, when everything was much too loud, too vibrant, too fast. He hadn’t yet learnt to control his mind, and every minor thing proved to be a distraction. His brain had been an uncontrollable racing engine, and out of desperation, he’d sought the only thing which could calm it, allowing him some precious sleep at night.

His need to satisfy his mind had eventually led to him adding cocaine to his drug use after a very boring night, and it didn’t take long before he turned sallow and thin, fingers constantly shaking and always in need of more cash.

It’d been a cold, autumn evening when he met a kind, old lady who offered him her cup of tea while he was waiting for his dealer at a park. She’d seen him sickly and alone, dark shadows bruising the under of his eyes.

Much too cold to care about his dignity, he’d accepted her offer, sipping the beverage silently as she attempted to make some small talk with him. He’d quickly deduced that she was a retired nanny who frequently got abused by her unemployed husband, whose favourite hobby was drinking until he couldn’t recognise his own wife.

Her sweet demeanour had been endearing, and he found himself liking Martha Hudson, despite his original intention not to. They’d spent the next few months meeting occasionally in the park, whenever his need for drugs brought him there. Mrs Hudson had gone there every evening though – it had been something like a sanctuary for her, just a few hours of peace.

It took a near death experience near his twenty-sixth birthday before he finally agreed to enter rehabilitation. Even then, he’d relapsed a few times, only succeeding in curbing his addiction after Mycroft had promised to acquire him a job with Scotland Yard. Once clean, he even managed to track down Mrs Hudson again, helping her get rid of her useless husband by proving him guilty of a murder charge.

And it was just going to take a momentary lapse on his part for him to fall right back into the trap.  _Fuck_ Ahern. Years of hard work were close to coming to naught.

It didn’t help that he was haunted by misshapen images of Annie at night; they were like splinters in his damn brain. Some part of him felt responsible for her death, and he couldn’t shrug off the guilt that plagued him whenever he closed his eyes.

He was drained, and he longed for a brief respite. Heroin could give him that…

“Sherlock?”

He turned away from her gentle voice, aggressively arranging the cushions before burying his face into them. If he kept up this childish behaviour, then maybe she’d leave him alone.

“You haven’t eaten in two days,” she said, tentatively moving closer to him (he had yelled at her two hours ago for being nosy, almost making her cry). “What’s wrong?”

He covered his head with his blanket, muffling whatever else she said next.

He counted till twelve before he heard a sigh and the shuffling of her feet as she left him.

* * *

Something was terribly wrong. He looked maniacal, desperate, disconcerted. He seemed to slip in and out of concentration, and it scared her.

Not to mention the fact that he’d turned up at her doorstep with light purple bruises on his face just three days ago. Even Irene had been slightly alarmed, sneaking glances at him until she was ordered by Mycroft to travel to god knows where. It was getting more secretive as the months passed.

Molly tossed around her bed restlessly. Her mind was inundated with so many thoughts, it was impossible to fall asleep. She reached for her phone, thinking of playing some ridiculous game when she heard a moan.

She stiffened, sitting up on her bed. The seconds seemed arduously long. Just when she’d decided that she was imaging things, she heard it again. She scrambled out of her bed.

Sherlock was curled in a foetal position on the sofa. He was sweating profusely, his face twisting into a grimace. Another moan escaped from his lips as his eyebrows furrowed deeper. Horrified, she shook his shoulder.

“Sherlock!”

His eyes snapped open and he grabbed her arm roughly, strong fingers digging into her skin. She winced.

He panted heavily as his eyes darted about. Realising that he was safe, he turned his attention back to her, pulse still fluttering in his neck.

He released her arm from his vice-tight grip, looking embarrassed. “Sorry,” his voice was hoarse, and she could’ve sworn that it trembled a little.

“Are you alright?” she whispered, rubbing her arm.

His eyes flickered to her arm in concern before he nodded, turning away. She was tempted to enquire further, but he obviously needed some privacy to regain his composure.

She went into the kitchen to get him some warm milk, and was hit with a strong sense of déjà vu. This happened months ago, when he was still having nightmares about Moriarty. She wondered what could have possibly made those monsters appear in his dreams again. 

He was staring blankly into nothingness when she returned. He accepted the drink silently, moving over to give her some space on the couch. He drummed his fingers rhythmically on his knee as he drank.

Molly wasn’t prepared for the look in his eyes when he finally averted his gaze back to her. His eyes held the same vulnerability they did on the night he came to her in the lab, except now they were pleading as well, a silent request for her not to ask him anything. He wasn’t ready.

She laid her hand on his arm to let him know that she understood, and she wasn’t going to push him to tell her. He looked so relieved that she was swamped with the desire to embrace him. With the glass of milk in his hands and his damp, messy hair, he looked so much like a frightened child, the genius detective a hidden shadow.

“Do you want to share the bed?” she blurted, once he’d set down his glass.

His brows knitted together and he shot her a sharp glance. She went crimson.

“Sometimes having someone beside you helps,” she mumbled, wishing that a hole could swallow her up. “You might sleep better, and you need that,” she pointed out.

Sherlock pondered, looking conflicted. He shook his head after a while. Molly leaned in to kiss his cheek, feeling his tensed body relax a bit.

“The door’s open if you change your mind,” she said, patting his knee before returning to her bedroom.

* * *

She was curled on her side, the duvet pulled over her head. She was trying to stay awake, hoping that he would change his mind and accept her offer. She didn’t know what she was thinking when she’d uttered those words, except that she couldn’t bear to see him alone, fear staining his features.

It certainly wasn’t decent( _“Molly Hooper, you tart!”,_ her mother’s shrill voice echoed in her head) to be sleeping on the same bed with a man who wasn’t even close to being her boyfriend, but it wasn’t like they hadn’t slept together before. The circumstances had been different then, but still…

The side of her bed dipped and Molly held her breath. The duvet moved and a cool draught swept across her feet. She shut her eyes. If she gave any indication of acknowledging his presence now, he would leave straight away.

She could feel him shifting on the bed, gradually inching closer to her until finally ( _finally_ ), his left arm was flush against her back.

After a torturous wait of what felt like eternity, he rolled his body sideways, pressing his head gently to the nape of her neck. Her pulse raced at the damp coolness of his skin on hers. His warm breath touched the sensitive skin on her neck, making her shiver.

She turned to face him, and her breath hitched. Their faces were merely inches apart, and he gazed back at her intently. His eyes bore into hers, and he seemed to be studying something, because a minute later, his serious expression softened. He moved his right hand to cover hers, placing his thumb over the area where her pulse beat lightly against her skin.

Molly frowned, before realising that this was his way of finding a centre, something stable to hold onto. Her pulse was  _soothing_ him.

For reasons unknown, it broke her heart.

His breathing soon became deep and even, thumb still resting lightly on her wrist. She moved her left hand to his forehead, fingers gliding across it as she smoothed the taut crease between his brows. Sherlock stirred slightly and edged closer to her, mumbling something incoherent.

His steady breathing soon lulled her into a dreamless sleep.  

* * *

They spent the next week in this arrangement, and every day, he would move nearer to her. She didn’t think that it was deliberate though, merely an instinctive gesture while he was sleeping. But he didn’t display any surprise at the intimacy, nor did he comment on it.

He started to eat again, just little bites of whatever she bought or made. It wasn’t much, but at least he was getting some calories in. He would spend hours plucking on his violin strings, immersed in his own world. He went back to plastering nicotine patches on his arm, sometimes up to four patches at once.  

Molly wondered if she should inform Mycroft, but it felt like a betrayal of sorts, so she remained hushed on the subject.

She woke up one morning to find his arm draped across her waist, his face buried in the crook of her neck, warm breath tickling her skin.

This was the closest he’d ever gotten. Not too surprising, seeing how he’d suffered from one of the worst nightmares she’d seen the night before, moaning a name which sounded like “Annie”. He’d looked defeated and glum when she had woken him, sighing before staring absently at the ceiling. She had felt his thumb ghosting across her wrist just before her stone-heavy lids shut again.

Molly tried to disentangle herself from his hold without disturbing him. She failed spectacularly, of course. He was a disturbingly light sleeper. It didn’t take long before he stirred, eyes fluttering open.

He frowned when he saw his arm around her waist.

“Is this too close?” he murmured, immediately moving to leave a gap between them.

It  _was_  actually, but she didn’t mind (it felt horrible to admit that she liked it), so she shook her head. Sherlock attempted to give her a small smile before getting up, quickly turning into his moody self once more.

Another assignment soon came along, taking him away from her. He didn’t wake her when he left for Germany.

She wished she’d been able to bid him goodbye though, because three days later, Mycroft Holmes visited her at Bart’s with the news.  


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Xmas everyone! Hope you guys are having a lovely holiday.
> 
> And forgive me if you come across any grammatical errors. I'm practically nodding off at my desk.

**_27 hours ago…_ **

Mycroft wore a look of worry as he stepped out of his trademark black car, barely glancing at the archaic building with its grimy walls and intricate markings along the main entrance, the statue of King Henry VIII sitting proudly atop the gate.

He normally enjoyed studying the oldest hospital in the UK whenever an errand brought him here. He was, after all, fond of history and had spent boundless time reading various books on England’s architectural history during his youth. Something exceptionally dull, as his younger brother loved reminding him.

Today however, was vastly different. There was an unusual urgency to his gait. He swung his black umbrella a little harder than he would’ve preferred, his shoes thudding insistently on the ground as he made his way into the hospital.

His men had informed him of Molly Hooper’s current schedule, placing her in the morgue at this moment. He would have called, but even he was aware that the news he possessed was distressing enough to warrant some physical interaction.

The solemn man peered through the circular window of the morgue doors before pushing them open. It was a pity Miss Hooper wasn’t alone.

The two doctors were much too engrossed in their work to notice his presence. He cleared his throat subtly.

As expected, Molly Hooper was the first of the pair to acknowledge his company. Mycroft rarely admired people, but this woman was making him break his own rules. Her seemingly silly and earnest vulnerability masked a sharp and perceptive mind that he only had the pleasure of observing occasionally in others. Her colleague took a whole second longer to notice him.

The smile on her face faltered when she saw him. He gave her a tight smile in return. They both knew that his presence never bode well.

“May I help you?” her colleague asked politely, shooting him a curious stare. “I’m sorry, but you’re not allowed to be here. The morgue is only accessible to staff.”

Mycroft ignored the young man.

“It’s ok, Joe. He’s a…friend of mine,” Molly said, the barest sign of a frown on her face.

Joe took the hint and diverted his attention back to the body. Wrinkled, pale and thin – quite possibly an old man who’d been sick for a long time, Mycroft observed absently. Boring. The man, Joe, seemed oddly familiar though, but Mycroft couldn’t place his face. With his light brown hair and eyes, it was possible that many others looked like him. Mycroft shrugged off the nagging feeling.

He ushered the pathologist to the corridor impatiently.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, wringing her hands together. “Is it Sherlock?”

He shook his head.

“It’s Doctor Watson. He was involved in a car accident.”

* * *

Molly was aware of Mycroft’s moving lips, but she barely comprehended anything. All she caught were the words ‘John’ and ‘accident’. She was having trouble standing.

“W-what?” she stammered.

The older Holmes sighed, “John is currently in a coma. The doctors are not able to determine when he’ll gain consciousness, if he ever does. I need you to go over to Brisbane since Harriet Watson’s going through rehabilitation for her alcohol addiction now and is effectively useless in such a situation.” A look of disdain crossed his face and Molly had the impression that he viewed such things as a weakness.

“Miss Hooper?” he prompted.

“Of course…I’ll…I need to pack and…”

Mycroft flashed her one of his rare reassuring looks. “A private jet will be made available. I’ll send someone to pick you up in two hours. My car is waiting outside, I’ll send you home first.”

“O-ok.”

Her tears wouldn’t even fall.

* * *

**_Present…_ **

The man before her was almost unrecognisable. His face had countless cuts and scratches, each one a jarring stain against his tanned skin. His head was heavily bandaged, hiding his fair hair. A machine beeped softly in the background, the sound rhythmic and consistent as it measured John’s heartbeat.

The accident had occurred during the wee hours of the morning, when John was on the way home after pulling a late shift at the A and E. It was presumed to be a case of drunk driving. Fortunately for John, another vehicle had been nearby to send him to the hospital. Molly shuddered to think what would’ve happened if no one had been around.

His condition had stabilised for now, although as Mycroft had stated, no one could know when he was going to wake up. She was trying not to entertain the possibility that he might be in a permanent vegetative state.

Stay positive, that was what she had to do. She’d subscribed to that motto during the years when her father battled with his illness, and she would stick to it again.

She stifled a yawn, glancing at her watch. She hadn’t slept since she left London, and her eyelids were stubbornly trying to force themselves shut.

Light footsteps just outside the door alerted Molly of someone else’s presence. She sat up straighter on the hard chair.

A petite woman with blonde hair and greyish-blue eyes walked into the room. Her delicate face fell upon seeing John, lips set into a thin line. She blinked once, twice, trying to contain her tears, before realising that she wasn’t alone.

Mary Morstan jumped.

“Sorry to startle you,” Molly said, her voice slightly croaky due to the lack of use. “I’m Molly Hooper. I called you just now.” Mycroft had given her Mary’s number.

“Right, yes,” the blond said, on the verge of tears. “I…thank you for informing me.” She took a shaky breath and sat on the other side of the bed, clasping John’s hand, swiping her fingers gently across his knuckles.

Molly would’ve offered her some words of comfort, but she had never been well-versed in such things, always guilty of putting her foot in her mouth. Conversation was not really her area, as Sherlock had once informed her. That she’d have to agree with. Why else did she choose to work with the dead?

“You’re John’s friend?” Mary enquired after a beat.

Molly nodded.

“You’re a…pathologist, right?”

Molly raised her eyebrows, surprised that Mary was aware of that fact. Mary gave her a small smile.

“John talks about you. He said you were a shoulder to lean on after…you know.”

“Well, we actually met through Sherlock. Does he talk about him often?”

“Not for a while. It was difficult for him of course, but he was just starting to open up about his friend, and he was healing. And now -” A tear slipped down her cheek and she hastily wiped it away. “Will he be alright, you think?”

Molly worried her lower lip. “I’m not sure,” she answered truthfully.

Mary sighed, looking crestfallen. “He’s such a nice man. So sweet and kind and just _good_.”

“He is,” she agreed. “Pretty brave and loyal too. He -” Molly frowned as her ringing phone interrupted their conversation. Her heart sank when she saw the caller ID. “Excuse me,” she told Mary, leaving the room.

“Mycroft?”

The older Holmes wasted no time. “I need you to inform Sherlock about the accident.”

“You haven’t told him?” she asked, disbelief etched in her voice.

“No,” he replied curtly, displeased with her tone. “I would think that my brother wouldn’t see too well to me being the conveyer of such news. My voice would immediately place him in an unfavourable mood, worsening matters.”

“Fantastic,” Molly muttered, rubbing her eyes tiredly.

“Do it, Miss Hooper. Now,” he commanded. Molly huffed out a resigned breath as he hung up.

* * *

Sherlock couldn’t sleep. He told himself that it was because he wasn’t tired, but that was miles from the truth.

It was astonishing how quickly he’d grown accustomed to having another person on the bed with him. Without Molly, his bed felt too empty and bare. He never thought that physical intimacy could bring so much pleasure. Not sex, but just being close enough to touch, her warm body pressed against his, was comforting and reassuring. It was another way of conversing, he supposed. Not all communication came from words, and even though touch couldn’t actually make things better, he was learning that it was an efficient way of _feeling_ better.

He sighed and turned to his side, staring at the boring white wall. Why did hotel rooms always have to paint their walls white? He missed his wallpaper back at Baker Street, with that ridiculous smiley face he’d sprayed on during an unbearably boring night.

His hunger for heroin had been gradually subsiding over the past week (he still encountered sudden cravings), although another one of his traits was rearing its ugly head again.

He was gambler, always had been. He enjoyed risks and games, putting himself in danger just to see if he could escape unscathed. Sometimes he wondered if he was harbouring a death wish, seeing how he frequently placed himself right on the precipice of death.

Now that he’d experienced the surge of heroin again, he was itching to prove that he was _better,_ that he could take it once more without succumbing to the addiction. A nagging voice at the back of his mind told him it was foolish, but didn’t John always tell him that he was an idiot?

It didn’t help that he was bored out of his mind. Nothing new had surfaced since he came to Munich. He was getting tired of this life, of living in the shadows. He wanted his cases, Baker Street, John, Mrs Hudson, going to the lab at Bart’s …

He frowned when his phone vibrated loudly. Only one person would call him, and it never meant something good. He arched an eyebrow when he saw the name. Wasn’t who he was expecting.

“Molly?”

“Sherlock, hi. How are you holding up?”

“Alright.”

“Listen…I have something I need to tell you…” Pause. Shaky breath, nervous, voice softer than usual. Sherlock’s eyebrows furrowed deeper. What was wrong?

“What?”

Silence.

“Get to the point, Molly,” he said testily. He hated it when people were slow.

“John’s been in an accident,” she whispered. “He’s in a coma now.”

He blinked. Seconds (minutes, hours) ticked by.

“Sherlock?”

“How?” he managed to ask. He had an odd sensation of being detached from his body, like he was watching the whole scene through a lens.

“He was most probably hit by a drunk driver. I’m in Brisbane with him now, and Mary’s here too. I… _oh god,_ ” she choked back a sob. Knowing her, he figured that reality had just dawned on her.

He should say something, because her cries were making his chest tighten painfully. Most people would offer a few words of comfort, maybe cry a bit themselves. Instead, he did the worst thing he could think of.

Sherlock hung up and turned off his phone.

* * *

His friend. The first friend he ever had was lying on a hospital bed, inches away from death, while he who was supposed to be dead, was perfectly fine, roaming the bloody streets of Munich at midnight.

He’d thought that jumping off a roof would’ve been able to keep his friends safe. Apparently not then. Because fucking idiots had to drive while drunk. An odd noise that sounded like a laugh appeared at the back of his throat.

He’d been diligently trying to keep John safe from dangerous men like Moran, but it had to be something _mundane_ that hurt him. It was all so stupid.

The worst part was that John had gone to Australia because of _him._ Because he couldn’t bear living in London anymore. It was partially his fault that his friend was laying half-dead, continents away.

Sherlock wanted to yell, throw something, hit someone. There was so much rage mounting within him that it was threating to spill over. He needed an outlet, something to help him forget and relax.

He wasn’t thinking when his feet brought him to that street. When cash was exchanged and a syringe discreetly slipped into his pocket.

Oh, he certainly wasn’t thinking at all.

* * *

Sherlock sat on the edge of the hotel bed, staring at the syringe which he’d placed on the bedside table. He drummed his fingers on his knees, chewed softly on his lips. Lay down on the bed. Sat back up again.

After a moment, he got up to pace around the room, fingers steepled under his chin. Five steps left, five steps right, four steps left, four –

He sat back down on the bed again. Stared at the syringe.

“Don’t be an idiot,” he muttered.

People rarely listened to their own advice, and as Sherlock would discover, he wasn’t so different from the common population when it came to this aspect.

His right arm extended toward the table, slim fingers closing around the syringe. 


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm waiting for s3 to start now, so I'm an emotional mess! This may be crap haha. Proceed with caution. :p

Molly’s eyebrows creased when she walked into the hospital ward. Mary was still by John’s bedside, despite the pathologist’s advice for her to get some rest. She had not gone back home for close to two days.

The blond was holding onto John’s hand, her head nodding dangerously as she dozed on the uncomfortable chair. Molly felt her chest tighten at the sight. Mary obviously loved John deeply – she was extremely affected by his accident, refusing to eat much and sleeping for only a couple of hours at a time. Her face had gone paler and the shadows under her eyes were much darker. There was a perpetual frown on her otherwise sweet face.

Molly squeezed her shoulder gently. Mary awoke with a start, opening her eyes groggily.

“Sorry,” Molly murmured.

Mary shook her head. “It’s alright. I’ve slept enough anyway.”

The pathologist raised her eyebrows.

“Ok, not enough, but  _enough_ ,” Mary said, trying to stifle a yawn. She looked so fatigued that Molly decided it was time to put her foot down.

“Go home Mary,” she urged. “You can’t do anything here, and you really need the rest.”

“I’m fine.”

Molly suppressed a sigh. “No you’re not. You’re completely exhausted. Please go home and sleep. I promise to call you if there’s any progress.”

Mary looked away, running her thumb absently over the back of John’s hand.

“You don’t want to fall sick,” Molly said gently.

The blond worried her lower lip while staring at John. She turned towards Molly after a pause. “Promise you’ll call?”

“Yes. Even if it’s something small, I’ll still call.”

“Al…alright,” she relented.

Molly plonked herself gracelessly on the chair once Mary had left. It had been three days since John was admitted, and he still wasn’t showing any signs of recovery yet. Coupled with the fact that Sherlock hadn’t answered any of her calls, she was riddled with worry.

As if on cue, her phone rang with a text alert.

_There’s a fire. - SH_

Molly blinked twice and rubbed her eyes, wondering if her appalling lack of sleep was finally affecting her.

_I just extinguished it. Maybe I’ll set another one soon. –SH_

Set another one soon? What was he on about? She was tempted to call him, but she knew she had to tread lightly. He hated phone calls with a vengeance. She had an inkling that he was against it partially because his brother preferred calling.

**_What do you mean, there was a fire? –Molly_ **

_There was a fire in my hotel room. Didn't you understand me the first time? – SH_

Molly bit on the inside of her cheek.

**_Didn’t the smoke alarm go off? –Molly_ **

_Don’t be absurd. I disabled it. –SH_

She could imagine him rolling his eyes dramatically to the ceiling.

**_Why do you want to set another fire? –Molly_ **

_Bored. –SH_

_You do have small lips and breasts. –SH_

Her fingers froze. She couldn’t for the life of her understand what was happening to him.

_But there’s nothing wrong with that. –SH_

_Your lips are quite kissable actually. –SH_

**_Why are you talking like this? –Molly_ **

_They are facts. I like stating facts. –SH_

_Stop asking stupid questions. –SH_

She was musing over how to continue when he beat her to it.

_I think I’ll set my sheets and my hideous shirt on fire now. –SH_

Molly was utterly perplexed. Why was he behaving so strangely? He seemed so unguarded and relaxed, much chattier than usual. It was so unlike him. It was as if he –

“God no,” she whispered. He couldn’t have been this stupid, could he?

Her stomach flipped at the possibility. She dialled his number quickly, her heart sinking when it went to voicemail.

Well, it looked like he could.

* * *

“He what?” Mycroft hissed.

“He told me he was going to set some things on fire,” she said, barely able to keep her voice from trembling. “Do you think he injected?”

The older Holmes was silent for a moment, before releasing a harsh breath. “I’m going to find him.”

He hung up before she could say anything else.

* * *

There were only a two times in his life when Mycroft Holmes experienced genuine fear.

The first was when Sherlock revealed to mummy that their father was having an affair, in front of a large crowd at a party.

The second was when Sherlock almost died of an overdose. The brothers have taken to labelling that incident as  _the_ night.

Despair was mounting within the stern man as he got off the private plane, curtly instructing his driver to the hotel where Sherlock was residing. Under his fear was a chorusing wave of anger, because he had been stupid to have trusted his younger brother. He thought that Sherlock was smart enough to understand the consequences of succumbing to his desires. His brother had betrayed his trust.

“Sherlock!” he rapped sharply on the hotel door.

He heard a loud, dramatic groan before the door swung opened.

Sherlock was completely nude, grinning like an excited child on Christmas. He pouted a little when he saw Mycroft.

Fragments of memories long since buried of Sherlock as a playful child flashed through Mycroft’s mind. His throat tightened painfully. Sherlock gave him a smirk.

“What brings you here, brother  _dear_?”

Mycroft frowned, noticing the usual signs of his brother’s drug high. How could he forget? He pushed Sherlock into the room with uncharacteristic roughness, hoping that no one had been a witness to his brother’s nudity.

“What have you done?” Mycroft demanded once the door was close, throwing a sheet in Sherlock’s direction. His brother ignored it, letting it fall to the ground.  

“Make a deduction,” he crossed his arms childishly.

“This is not a game, Sherlock!” Mycroft’s eyes roamed around the room, quickly settling on the syringe on the bedside table. He closed his eyes.

“How could you be so stupid?” he asked him, voice strained. He should have known, he should have sent someone to check on him. He shouldn’t have left him alone after the news of John’s accident. This was partially his fault…

Sherlock glared at him. “You’re stupid,” he muttered.

“I’m sending you to a safe house in Scotland,” Mycroft said gravely.

“I’m not going.”

“You’ll detox there.”

“No!”

“That’s my final word, Sherlock,” Mycroft said through gritted teeth. “We are leaving  _now._ ”

For the first time that night, Mycroft saw a gleam of fear in Sherlock’s eyes. They both knew his dreadful track record with withdrawal symptoms.

“I’m not going,” Sherlock reiterated, backing away from him.

“You are going to listen to me, Sherlock. Or for god’s sake, I'll  _make_ you go.” Mycroft glowered at his brother, fists clenched tight. He was gradually losing his composure, something that rarely happened. Sherlock must have been clear-headed enough to notice as well, because his eyes flickered to his face with surprise.

Sherlock blinked. “I’ve disappointed you.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time it happened.” Mycroft regretted it the moment the words left his mouth. He saw his brother flinch slightly.

“Listen,” he said, trying to make his voice gentler (oh, the things he did for his younger brother). “I know why you went back to drugs. You were helpless and angry, and you craved a distraction.” Sherlock looked to the ground, moving his toes. “But I need you to stop right now, before your addiction worsens. You know the consequences. We don’t want a repeat of  _the_ night now, do we?”

 Sherlock shook his head, still not looking up.

“How is he?” he asked after a moment of heavy silence.

“Still unconscious, unfortunately. You don’t want him ever knowing that you relapsed Sherlock. Or you’ll disappoint Doctor Watson as well.”

Sherlock sighed deeply, rubbing his bloodshot eyes as he pondered. “Ok, I’ll go to Scotland.”

* * *

Molly awoke to the sound of her phone ringing. She groaned softly at the stiffness in her neck. She bit on her bottom lip when she saw the name.

Another call. Another problem.

“Hello?”

“Pack your things. Someone will fetch you to the airport.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re going to Scotland, Miss Hooper.”

“Whatever for?”

“Your guess was correct. Sherlock did inject.”

Molly couldn’t breathe.  

“I need someone I can trust to be with him,” Mycroft continued.

“Yes…yes of course,” Molly answered, struggling not to cry. Oh god.

“My man will come in an hour,” Mycroft said. He paused, and Molly took the opportunity to dab at her tearing eyes. “Miss Hooper?”

“Y-yes?”

“Thank you.”

* * *

Sherlock was lying on a bed in an isolated house somewhere in Scotland when he heard her voice. Mycroft had told him that she was going to be here as his handler of sorts, keeping an eye on him when he was going to struggle (it wasn’t even a question of if) with suppressing his cravings. She had never dealt with addicts before, but as a doctor, she understood the physiology well.  

He sat up, arranging his features to one of indifference despite feeling cold and weak. His last shot was six hours ago, and the symptoms of withdrawal were starting to surface, and fuck it if he’d ever admit it, but he was scared.

He didn’t want her to see him like this, but was too tired to object to his brother's plans. He had been clenching his fists the entire journey to Scotland, fighting the desire to punch Mycroft and get off the plane somehow.

He saw her draw in a breath as she took in his form. He must be looking a right mess, his face pallid and unkempt with stubble. He felt his cheeks flush, embarrassed. How was he ever going to face her again? Even John had never seen him so damaged before.

She attempted to give him a small smile. Trying to be nice, reassuring. It annoyed him. She should be turning away in disgust.

“Go away,” he grumbled, wrapping the duvet tighter around his trembling shoulders.

She sat next to him on the bed, eyeing him warily.

“Leave!” he snapped.

“No,” her voice trembled, but her expression was unyielding.

He groaned internally. Why did she have to be stubborn? Normally he found it endearing and god help him, attractive. But right now, it only made him more frustrated with everything.

“Why do you want me to leave?” she asked softly.

He remained silent.

“Sherlock?” she prompted.

“Because I’ll say something to you that I’ll regret later,” he replied brusquely, glaring at her. There. She wanted the truth, didn’t she? 

He remembered hurling insults at the rehabilitation centre workers ages ago. Except he didn’t care if they had been affected by his verbal abuse.

But Molly was different. He didn’t want to wound her. He was well aware that he’d ripped her apart many times before, but none of those incidents had been intentional on his part. They were merely evidence of his lack of tact and social skills.

Her lips parted at his words, and she looked on the verge of tears. She shook her head. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Mol -”

“No.” She gripped his hand.

Sherlock frowned and lowered his eyes to the bed, knowing that it’d be a futile attempt to convince her. He flinched when he felt something warm on his face.

Molly watched him intently as she grazed his cold cheek with her fingertips. The warmth from her fingers ignited the nerves on his skin, making him shiver. He unconsciously held his breath, raising his eyes to meet hers.

There was no judgement, no revulsion at what he’d done reflected in those dark pools. Instead, they held so much affection and tenderness, it made his chest ache.

As always, she was beside him, unselfishly offering her help. It dawned on him that he didn’t only disappoint two people by relapsing - he had disappointed a third as well. His throat tightened, and he inwardly cursed the heroin. It always made him more emotional.

The light kiss she pressed to the back of his hand snapped him back to reality. The feeling of her lips was familiar and calming, reminding him of the nights when she would sometimes kiss his forehead or cheeks when she thought that he had fallen asleep. It seemed so long ago.

He suddenly realised how exhausted he was. If he could, he would escape into a deep, dreamless sleep, fall into a dark pit and shut everything out.

“You should sleep,” she whispered, moving her hand to push his curls away from his damp forehead before threading her fingers through his hair. How had she found out that he liked that?

It was fascinating, how she managed to uncover parts of him without him needing to inform her. A spasm of shiver rippled through his body then, and Molly’s grip on his hand stiffened.

Too fatigued to care, he dropped his head to her shoulder, tucking it at the crook of her neck. It wasn’t very comfortable since she was so tiny, but he found that he was contented enough, surrounding himself with her heady scent. His long arms encircled her waist, gripping tightly as if she was his last anchor to sanity.

And maybe she was.


	21. Chapter 21

Molly woke up to the now familiar sound of Sherlock retching loudly. She scrambled out of bed groggily, making her way to the bathroom and preparing herself for the painful scene that was sure to greet her.

It was already the fourth day since she’d arrived to this godforsaken two-storey safe house, but the image of Sherlock hunched over the loo still sent a sharp twinge through her chest.

If the file Mycroft had given her about Sherlock’s withdrawal history was still accurate (that man had files for everything), then today would mark the start of his symptoms peaking. She was dreading it.

The past few days had been an emotional turmoil. The physical pain he was in was almost unbearable for her to witness, and his preferred defence mechanism was to hurl a bunch of horrible insults at her. She had quickly learnt to let them slide, but she’d be lying if she said they didn’t hurt. He would always offer a quick apology after, when the worst of his withdrawals had passed. The utter remorse in his eyes was supposed to make her feel better, but she only felt worse.  

Her jaw tightened when she reached the bathroom. Sherlock was lying on the cold, tiled floor with his eyes squeezed shut. His breathing was ragged, and his face was lined with a thin layer of perspiration. His brows were set in a tight crease, the skin under his eyes red and sore. A lump formed in her throat and she swallowed hard. There would be no crying, she’d sworn that to herself.

Sherlock’s eyelids opened a fraction and he groaned softly, attempting to get up. She went forward and steadied him with her arms, allowing him to place his entire body weight on her. Once, he would’ve been too heavy for her petite frame, but not anymore.

His knees were weak as she helped him off the floor, and he grabbed onto her wrist, signalling her to stop for a moment. She started as his fingers closed over her skin. They were ice cold.

“You should take a warm bath,” she murmured, rubbing his arms, which were raised with goosebumps. It had been two days since he last bathed. Sherlock shook his head, a small pout forming on his lips.

“Come on,” she coaxed. “Remember how good you felt after your last bath?”

Sherlock huffed out a breath and rolled his eyes a bit. He looked so much like the old Sherlock that a faint smile appeared on her lips. She cupped his left cheek, running her thumb across it.

“You’ll feel better, promise.”

He shut his eyes, licked his chapped lips, nodded.

* * *

It hadn’t even been two minutes when a loud thud issued from the bathroom. Molly’s eyes widened with fear as she rapped loudly on the door. She had been waiting outside in case he required anything. She was too afraid to leave him alone anyway.

“Sherlock!”

There was no reply.

“Sherlock! Open the door!” she cried, rattling the doorknob. She pressed her ear to the door, forcing herself to take a deep breath. She heard some heavy shuffling. The door opened.

A sheepish-looking Sherlock with a towel wrapped around his waist stood before her. He refused to meet her gaze, eyes casted toward the ground. She saw that his hands were trembling, and the beginnings of a purple bruise were forming on his left kneecap. She winced internally at the stark contrast it made against his pale skin.

“I fell,” he mumbled. “Nothing to worry about.”

Molly released a sharp breath she didn’t know she was holding. It was obvious he was encountering some trouble despite the simplicity of the task. She made a quick decision, and felt her cheeks starting to burn.

“I’ll help you with your bath.”

Sherlock’s lips parted and he stared at her. A pink tinge appeared across his cheeks.

“You need help,” she said quietly, promptly pushing her nervousness away and descending into her professional persona.

“No, I can do it on my own,” he said stubbornly. He attempted to close the door but she held onto it firmly. He shot her a glare.

“Sherlock, just see me as a doctor, and think of yourself as my patient. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“No,” he snapped.

She suppressed a sigh. “Your hands are shaking, and you can hardly walk steady. You don’t want to injure yourself further. The faster we do this, the quicker you can take your meds and get back to bed.”

Sherlock lifted his hands, experimentally opening and closing his fingers. They were still weak and shaking. He lowered his head.

* * *

Sherlock sat in the bathtub, trying his best to focus on the texture of the water against his skin rather than the feeling of Molly’s nimble hands.

He stared resolutely ahead. Neither of them had spoken since he removed his pyjamas. The silence was heavy, and he could sense Molly quickening her pace as she washed his back, applying the lavender soap which seemed to successfully soothe his nerves.

She had seen him naked before of course, when he was lying on her slab half-dead after the fall. But this was wholly different. He’d never been so dependent on anyone for everyday tasks before, and he felt disgusted with himself.  

Still, he couldn’t deny that it actually felt nice to have someone bathe him, as ashamed as he was admitting it to himself. It was comforting and relaxing, and the light pressure of her fingers reminded him of the past few nights he’d been spending with her.

They hadn’t discussed much about that. They didn’t talk about how she was on his bed even though Mycroft had another bedroom prepared for her. They didn’t talk about how he’d given up all pretence and would hug her as he slept. It wasn’t even an innocent arm around her waist anymore. He had taken to spooning around her, convinced that if he didn’t hold onto her tight enough, she would just slip away like everything else in his life. Sometimes, he would push her hair aside, pressing his lips to the soft skin on the back of her neck. He wondered if it was the drugs which turned him more physically needy, or something else altogether. There was probably some overlap. Molly never objected to his touches.

When he’d woken up sweating feverishly and unable to sleep after a particularly awful nightmare of John dying, she had wrapped her arms around him, weaving her fingers through his curls and murmuring words he couldn’t remember now. The pain and panic had culminated in one of the strongest wave of cravings he’d ever encountered, and in his half-hazy state, he’d turned his head and kissed her while she was mid-sentence, desperate for a distraction. The hormones that flooded his brain had made him forget for a while. Molly had returned the kiss, but she looked conflicted when they pulled apart. She probably thought that he was only using her. Was he? He supposed a part of him was. He wished she could see him for who he was and run far away, but he was selfish and wanted her to stay too.

He kept telling himself that he would be the old Sherlock Holmes again once the withdrawal symptoms passed. He would go back to work, take down Moriarty’s network and return to Baker Street. He would turn back into that machine people saw him as, return to his crime-solving life. But with each passing day, that thought seemed like a far-fetched dream which would never materialise. His barriers were slowly cracking and crumbling because of Molly; he was never going to be the same again.

“Done,” the pathologist’s soft voice broke him out of his reverie. She was right – the bath really did make him feel a whole lot better. He was warm again (at least for now), and he felt clean. His face was still covered in light stubble, but he couldn’t be bothered about that now. Maybe he would shave tomorrow.

He cleared his throat. “I think I can put on my clothes by myself.”

Molly looked to object, but finally relented, nodding her head.

“I’ll be outside,” she murmured, kissing the top of his head before leaving. He closed his eyes after she left, searing the feeling of her touch in his mind.

* * *

Sherlock was languidly smoking a cigarette by the window, the Subutex he’d taken giving him some much needed relief from his abdominal cramps and nausea. Nicotine was definitely not the best substance for him to be using now, but at least it temporarily kept his heroin cravings at bay.

He watched the surrounding trees sway in the chilly wind. Grey clouds were forming overhead. He wrapped his blanket tighter around his shoulders.

He sat up straighter when he spotted the familiar black car pulling up in the driveway. Eyes narrowing, he went to the front door to greet the one person he absolutely didn’t want to see at this point.

“Try not to smoke so much, would you?” Mycroft said as he came in. His eyes swept over his frail form like a hawk, making Sherlock feel rather uncomfortable.

He rolled his eyes and ignored his brother, blowing a stream of smoke in his direction, knowing that it would irritate him. Mycroft shook his head at his childish behaviour and invited himself to the living room, where Molly was reading. He gave her a curt nod, and she took his hint.

“I’ve received some vital information from my agents,” he announced once she’d left the room. “It seems like Moran only has eleven people in his inner circle,” Mycroft said, a smug look on his face.

Sherlock stubbed out his cigarette and tossed it out of an open window. “We’ve already caught eight.”

“I am well aware of that, dear brother, seeing how I found four of them.”

Sherlock glowered at him. “Are you sure there are only eleven?”

Mycroft arched a brow.

“Good. So you’ll handle one, and pass the other two profiles to The Woman and me.”

Something flickered across Mycroft’s face. “That’s what I came here to talk to you about, Sherlock.” He paused. “You won’t be receiving anymore assignments.”

Sherlock stilled. “Pardon?”

“You heard me.”

Sherlock felt something akin to panic rush inside him. “Why not?”

“You’re clearly unstable right now. I will not have you compromise the whole operation.”

“But I’ll be fine in a few days!” he protested. He only took about a week to detox the last time. Surely he would be alright soon?  

Mycroft fixed him with a look. “No you won’t.” Sherlock opened his mouth but his brother cut him off with an impatient wave of his hand. “Will you be able to concentrate with Doctor Watson still in a coma?”

Sherlock’s mouth went dry. “Yes.”

“You’ve never been very skilled at lying to me, Sherlock.”

A heavy feeling settled in Sherlock’s gut. “How is he?” he asked, voice strained.

The expression in his brother’s eyes said everything. A sense of dread crept up on him.

Mycroft sighed, “The doctors are predicting that he’ll most likely remain in a permanent vegetative state if he doesn’t regain consciousness within three days.”

“T-Three days?”

Mycroft nodded, eyeing him warily.

Sherlock licked his lips and sniffed. “I want to see him.”

“That’s not going to happen,” his older brother said immediately. “Mary Morstan knows exactly who you are. John has talked too much about you to her. It’d be too risky. You can’t do anything even if you sit by his bedside.”

“So you expect me to sit here and just _wait_?” Sherlock snarled.

“Yes. And you will do that,” Mycroft said sternly. “In fact, I want you out of Britain as soon as possible. If Adam Ahern can recognise you, others might too. But not everyone outside of Britain is familiar with the detective in the funny hat.”

“No.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said warningly.

“I will not be treated like a child, Mycroft,” Sherlock sneered. “It was just one man who recognised me. And he was clever.”

His brother gave him a tight smile. “It’s not a risk I’m willing to take. This is my final word.”

“Mycroft –” He heard the desperation in his voice and was disgusted with himself, something that was becoming increasingly common.

“No.” The older Holmes was resolute. “I’ll give you a few more days here, and then you have to leave. I’ll handle this.” Sherlock blinked a few times, willing his mind to think of a retort.

“You’re fighting a losing battle, Sherlock,” Mycroft continued, softening his tone. “Just leave it.”

Sherlock glared daggers at his brother. He clenched his fists, trying to reign in his burgeoning temper. He hadn’t been the most controlled person for the past few days. He could lunge at his brother now if he wanted to. And Mycroft knew it – he took an instinctive step back. A frown suddenly appeared on his face.

“You might want to talk some sense into him, Miss Hooper.”

Sherlock heard a soft sound coming from behind the wall. His eyes widened in surprise when he saw Molly emerge from behind, her cheeks flushed crimson. Sherlock closed his eyes. His faculties were so poor now, he didn’t even realise she’d been there the whole time.

“I…I didn’t mean to –” she stammered.

“Of course you did,” Mycroft said briskly. “But no matter.”

“You’re not angry?” she asked, not daring to meet his brother’s cold gaze.

“No, since I think you have an idea of what I require from you.”

“You want me to follow Sherlock out of Britain.”

Mycroft nodded.

“But my job and –”

Mycroft clicked his tongue. “Your position at Bart’s will be safe until you return. As for your flat, I will handle your rent. And your cat is perfectly fine with your neighbour right now. You have nothing to worry about.”

Molly frowned. “This isn’t a choice, is it?”

Mycroft flashed her a reptilian smile, making the insides of Sherlock’s stomach crawl. He felt an overwhelming urge to vomit.

“I’ll be off now,” his brother said calmly, as if nothing significant had transpired. “A storm is coming, don’t want to be caught in it on the way back.”

Sherlock watched his retreating figure in disbelief. The moment Mycroft’s car left, he dashed into the bathroom, throwing up heavily. His stomach clenched painfully, and he gripped onto the toilet bowl, his knuckles turning white.

Molly tried to help, but he pushed past her roughly before slamming the door at her face. There were no locks on the bedroom doors (Mycroft had them removed just in case), but he knew she would never just barge in. He ignored her pleading voice, burying his face under a pillow, trying to relieve the painful tightening of his throat.

His best friend might never wake up again. He no longer had any work to do, nothing to keep his mind occupied. He had lost control of his life.

Moriarty was buried under a pile of soil, his body rotting and cold, but why did it feel like he was the one who had won?

* * *

Molly ladled some of the chicken soup she’d been making into a bowl. Sherlock had barely eaten at all yesterday, and she was going to put her foot down. He needed to get some nutrients, even if it was just soup.

A loud clap of thunder rang across the skies then, and she jumped. She’d always hated storms, and one was certainly arriving soon.

She carried the bowl up the stairs, hoping fervently that the past three hours would’ve calmed Sherlock down a bit. She opened the bedroom door tentatively, peeking in.

A strangled sound issued from her throat.

Sherlock was gone.   


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I changed my username to Kvothen. Still the same person! :) 
> 
> And have you guys read the recent Moffat interview? He said that Sherlock LOVES Molly. I'm dead. *flails*

Molly had barely made it to the open window when the first drops of rain splattered noisily onto the ground. She peered out and saw the rain rapidly getting heavier, the water and thunder merging into a cacophony of sounds. Flashes of lightning lit up the blackening sky brilliantly.

“Fucking fantastic,” she muttered, her heart sinking at the thought of Sherlock stumbling through the bitter rain.

She flung open the wardrobe and to her immense relief, found that his clothes were all still present. He hadn’t even bothered to change out of his pyjamas. 

Her heart was thumping wildly as she ran out of the house, mentally berating herself for leaving him alone for so long. She clenched her fists as she made her way down the road. Underneath her fear was a current of anger. She was furious that Sherlock would do something as stupid as this. He wasn’t going after John – he knew that there was no possible way to get to Brisbane without Mycroft’s help. He couldn’t just walk into the airport and buy some plane tickets.

She bit her bottom lip harshly as another bolt of lightning shot through the sky. Out here in the open, she could get struck and die within seconds. She swallowed hard against the pressure of bile that was threatening to rise up her throat.

Another flash of lightning, and something which sounded suspiciously like a whimper escaped from her lips. Her eyes darted to the skies, her breath coming out in short gasps as she ran. She turned a corner and a strangled sound of relief passed her lips when she spotted a lean figure a mile down the road. She would shout if there was any chance of him hearing her.

Cursing mentally, she pushed her sopping hair out of her eyes and forced her feet to move quicker.

* * *

Sherlock stretched out his arms, letting the rain strike his open palms. It was cold, quickly soaking through his thin pyjama top and sliding down his skin, causing spasms of shiver to shoot through his body. His hair was plastered to his forehead, the freezing rain dripping from his curls and flowing down his cheeks, washing away any signs of the hot tears he’d allowed to slip just a while ago in his moment of weakness.

The cold shook his mind from its core, giving it something else to concentrate on rather than the endless flood of voices that kept playing in his mind, clawing at his brain, yearning to trash its way through his skull. Voices screaming at him about the people he’d left in London, his home at Baker Street, _John_... Dear god, John. The balance of probability meant that he was most likely going to remain in a vegetative state for the rest of his life, and he would never know that the Fall had just been a well-constructed magic trick. He’d never know --- _not good, STOP_.

Sherlock gripped the sides of his head tightly. He just wanted the voices to fucking shut up and leave him alone.

A jagged bolt of lightning struck the ground a few miles off, and he was momentarily distracted ( _good)_ , the brightness of the electrostatic discharge burning in his retina. He could feel a rush of energy surge in his blood, and he was hungry for more.

He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, savouring the short respite for his mind. He could die – burn to a crisp, just like what Moriarty had wanted, but he was finding it hard-pressed to care at this point.

“Sherlock!” Her voice was faint, the howling wind battling for dominance.

Thin fingers closed around his wrist as Molly tried to pull him back. He should've run farther so that she couldn't find him, but his body's current condition was an annoying hindrance. He resisted with whatever strength he could summon (which wasn’t much – he was lucky she was small), trying to pry her fingers off.

She shouted something that he couldn’t quite make out over the rumble of thunder. Another bolt of lightning seared the ground, this time closer to where they were standing. His eyes glowed with intensity as he felt the first stab of fear hit him in the gut, and he was overwhelmed with a sudden wave of desire uncoiling deep within the pit of his stomach, his body mistranslating the fear, adrenaline and feeling of Molly’s hands on his body into something else altogether. The raging tide of adrenaline rushing in his body made her look maddeningly beautiful to him, and he had a desperate need to touch her.

He wrenched her to his body, pulling her flush against him. She tensed and attempted to push him aside, but he wouldn’t let her go. He wanted her to experience what he loved – the thrill of danger, the possibility of death staring him right in the face. She’d never faced anything quite so threatening before. He wanted to drag her into that part of his world, drown her in it, let her see how sick he was.

Her nails drew blood from his skin, and the sharp pain caused him to slacken his grip around her. She took the opportunity to free a hand before striking it across his left cheek.

He blinked, the imprint of her fingers stinging his face. It worked like a charm. His mind suddenly went blank, peaceful. There was no chattering, no noise threatening to engulf him and drown him. He ought to be mad at her (only his mother had slapped him before, when she’d found out that he was doing cocaine - more so from embarrassment than concern), but all he could do was stare blankly back.

His split moment of confusion was all she needed to drag him back, with him barely uttering one word of protest.

She slumped against the wall when they reached the house, her knees shaking too badly for her to stand. He wasn’t faring any better, his whole body quivering from the cold. Between sweating and shivering, he was a right mess.

She turned to him, nostrils flaring, eyes darker than usual. He’d never seen her so livid, and it was a terrifying sight.

“Are you fucking insane?” she demanded.

He flinched.

“You could’ve died!”

He had nothing to say. Maybe he _was_ insane. His features suddenly contorted with pain as he was hit with a stab of cramps. Fuck. He felt like he was going to die. He leaned against the wall, squeezing his eyes shut.

Her arms were around his waist almost immediately. He opened his eyes in surprise. Her lips were set in a thin line, but her eyes were brimming with concern. He hated himself in that instant. Maybe her too, a little. He’d just put their lives in danger, why was she still fucking helping him?

“Come on,” she said, leading him towards the bathroom. “Shower, some food, then meds,” she continued, quickly letting her professional persona take over.

‘We’ll deal with this later’ was left unsaid.

They didn’t talk as he stood under the running water, letting the warmth suffuse through his entire being, relaxing his muscles. He didn’t even care that he was completely naked in front of her. They were way past that. He didn’t know to be thankful or disgusted.

He pulled her under the shower halfway; she resisted initially, but was much too cold to give the hot water a pass. She stepped beside him with her clothes still on, refusing to return his gaze.

This close to her, he could count her eyelashes, see the light mark under her left jaw, the goosebumps on her skin. He could study her face for hours. Not that there was anything new to observe (he’d already catalogued everything about it in his mind palace after knowing her for 2 years), but the familiarity of her face always calmed him, and he never got bored of it.

He really ought to say something, diffuse the tension. But his lips felt like they were sewn together.

They dried themselves silently. She gave him some soup after, and his meds, which he accepted gratefully.

When they were ready to sleep, she went into the spare bedroom instead, leaving him alone in his ( _theirs_ , he couldn’t help thinking). The emptiness beside him seemed large, a gaping hole that he couldn’t quite ignore. He closed his eyes and entered his mind palace, searching for his file on the UK legislation, hoping to bore himself to tears and exhaust his mind enough to sleep.

He’d only made it past the second page when he shoved the file irritably back to its shelf.

* * *

Molly was curled up on her side when she felt the bed dip. She didn’t give any acknowledgement of his presence. The silence stretched on, and her insides started to squirm, so uncomfortable was the quietness, as if someone had nailed it above them, suffocating them.

“I’m sorry,” he finally said.  She didn’t move.

“Molly, please.”

With a sigh, she turned to face him. He was looking at her with wide searching eyes, boring right into her, cutting through all the layers of anger and disappointment that had started to build around her the moment she had discovered his disappearance. Damn him. Why did he still have such an effect on her after so bloody long? It was ridiculous. She was ridiculous.

“Why did you run out into the storm?” she asked, determined not to let him get away with risking his life so recklessly. Her tone was sharper than she’d intended, and she saw the hesitation in his eyes.

"I needed a distraction."

She frowned.

He sensed her confusion and hastened to explain. "My mind…sometimes, it seems like it has a life of its own, and it’s constantly scratching at the insides of my head, longing to be freed. I usually control it with my work, but I’m not – right now – I –”

She felt her throat tighten painfully at the thought of his mind being both a gift and his personal demon, the struggle he had to go through to control and tame it, turning chaos into order.

Sherlock closed his eyes. "I just needed it to stop for a while. All the voices about…”

“John?” she whispered, her eyes turning glassy.

He nodded, looking completely exhausted. “I didn’t mean to run into the storm, but everything became so loud, and I just needed some quiet, I just needed…”

She reached for his hand, and he inched closer, wrapping his long fingers around hers.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I won’t attempt something like this again.”

“I know. I’m sorry I hit you,” she said, touching his left cheek. “And scratched you.”

He shrugged, “I deserved it. What I did to you was far worse.” He tightened his hold on her hand and swallowed hard. The remorse on his face broke her heart – he was so far gone right now, she didn’t know if he’d ever go back to who he was. Probably not.

It scared her.

“Let’s just um, put this behind us, alright?” she said, trying to keep her voice steady.

His lips quirked into that lopsided smile she loved so much, drawing a faint smile from her. Neither of their smiles reached their eyes, but she thought that it was enough for now. It was the best either of them could manage.

“What are we going to do?” she asked after a pause. “What if John…” She trailed off, not daring to cement it in words, in case it became reality.

“I don’t know.” The despair on his face was rivalled by nothing she’d ever seen him express before, even during his times of heightened vulnerability.

He entwined his fingers with hers, grazing his thumb across the back of her palm. His blue eyes flickered over her face before finally resting on her eyes. She felt her cheeks starting to flush with the intensity of his look, but she held his gaze, drawn to it like a magnet. She’d forgotten how intimate staring into someone’s eyes could be; it was like delving into the deep recesses of someplace secret.

They didn’t speak, seeking solace in the silence.  

His eyelids finally drooped and his breathing deepened. She leaned forward to kiss his forehead, letting her lips linger. He looked so serene when his mind slowed down enough for him to rest, his features having an almost child-like innocence to them. She snuggled closer and draped an arm across his waist, staring blankly at the wall before giving in to the inexorable pull of sleep.


End file.
